


Trouble (We All Have Guns)

by TheCopperSoulBox (ProbablyJozo)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Explosions, Gen, Gun Violence, Guns, I had a hard time tagging characters, Not RPF, Resurrection, Suicide, TTT but real life, Trouble in Terrorist Town, brief vomiting that isn't detailed, characters based off TTT personalities, how tf does Spiff already have a character tag, it's TTT what do you expect, older and newer yogs appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22756939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProbablyJozo/pseuds/TheCopperSoulBox
Summary: It starts with the all-too-familiar sound of gunfire, and a body with an almost chicken-scratch note. From there, it all goes to shit.~Trouble in Terrorist Town but it's not a game, everyone knows how to shoot and people who die are never coming back (unless they're revived or a phoenix). Feel free to play along and see how quickly you can figure out who the traitors are...or, you know, just wait until they shoot people.(Mind the tags, each chapter also has specific trigger warnings in the notes, please stay safe!)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 55





	1. Daltos and the Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Hey.
> 
> Fun fact: I've actually had the first and last chapters of this written for months, but I never filled in (or actually planned) the middle since I kinda fell out of it. However, I read back through those chapters, went "damn I want to read this", and now have the rest of the story planned and ready to be written. This will probably be mostly action and less in-between moments than originally intended because I have more chance of finishing the story this way, but I think I got all the important parts, so...¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also 15 chapters is an estimate and a goal, fingers crossed we get there.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, don't get too attached, and have fun figuring out who's who.
> 
> Edit: Here's a tip for this story - any chapter with a character's name in the title will feature death. Not necessarily the death of the character named, but this is TTT, so people will die. All chapters with no names in the title may feature violence, but no death. This will be reiterated in future chapters. Keep that in mind and stay safe!

Daltos hears the first gunshot more than anything.

It’s panic and pure survival instinct that makes him turn around and retaliate, despite only having a shitty pistol at hand. He didn’t feel anything from that first shot—either the shooter flat out missed or his makeshift attempt at armour actually _worked_ —but he fires anyway, shooting haphazardly at the figure who quickly dashes behind the building he’d just left.

He keeps his gun trained on the corner but lets his mind wander, trying to puzzle out what’s going on. The town hasn’t gotten an attack in ages, managing to get through some rather productive months without everything being destroyed, and he’s begun to rather enjoy his time in this odd town of guns and chaos. You really don’t need death and destruction to be happy—but alas, with his life in the hands of his gun once again, Daltos feels the need to berate himself for thinking that he could let his guard down.

The tip of a shotgun is pointed past the corner and Daltos shoots without thinking, another bullet buried into another wall, wasted. He curses softly, slowly starting to back away from the building corner as he considers what he’s got: a bad pistol that probably only has one bullet left and some metaphorical crossed fingers. He could also run, but chances are this person is quicker, more agile and maybe good at shooting moving targets.

And even if he somehow escapes, they would probably end up going after someone else. He doesn’t want that.

Without warning, the figure jumps out from behind the building and fires, the bullets passing so close to Daltos that he swears he can feel them brush past him. His finger finds the trigger quickly and he shoots, once randomly and once with more control, although he has no idea if either shot hits or not because with his next shot something else catches his attention—the click of an empty gun. It’s the sound of his own demise, and in his alarm he fails to react quick enough to the figure lining up and taking another shot.

 _I had one more bullet than I thought_ , is surprisingly the only thought that runs through his mind as he feels his body crumple to the floor. His sight is blurred as the figure walks (limps?) up to him, enough that he can’t make out any facial features or figure out if he knows this person. They’d aimed for his chest and his ‘armour’ hadn’t done much in the way of protecting him, just like he’d always known it wouldn’t, so when they press the heel of their foot into his torso he can only wheeze and groan as the pain triples. Somehow, in his delirium, he can make out two steely eyes glaring at him.

“I’m sorry,” a voice says, and he knows it’s familiar but in his state he almost doesn’t want to figure out who the speaker is, “But this has to be done.”

The last thing Daltos sees is the shotgun pointed to his temple, and although he opens his mouth to scream, he doesn’t have any energy left to make a sound.

* * *

It’s Zylus who finds the scene first.

There’s no time wasted: he sends an alert to Lalna, starts searching around for any clues that could have been left behind and desperately represses his urge to scream and kick a wall down. When the detective arrives, he leaves him to do his job, trusting Lalna to do a better job than him and allowing himself the time to stand away and calm down. _It’s fine_ , he thinks to himself, _it’s fine, don’t worry too much but Daltos is dead. He’s dead, you heard the gunshots, we have no idea why and we might be in danger but it’s fine._

He isn’t very good at this ‘calming down’ thing.

Eventually, Lalna manages to pull out a piece of paper, clearly ripped out of some sort of journal, that was tucked neatly into Daltos’ ‘armour’. The words are deliberate but sloppy, as if the writer knew what they wanted to say but didn’t have much time, and as Lalna reads it aloud, Zylus comes to the realisation that something very big and terrifying is coming their way.

_“This town needs to be stopped._   
_You are building something sinister and implanting it into everyone who follows it blindly._   
_Someone needed to challenge it eventually and that’s what we’re here to do._   
_We will take out this town and everything it stands for until only the four of us remain._   
_I’m sorry, friends._   
_This was always going to happen eventually.”_

As Lalna makes plans to announce this finding to the whole of the town, Zylus goes back to his original thought.

_Okay. Daltos is dead, we know why and now this whole town is in a lot of danger._

_This. Is not. Fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wanting to play along:  
> There are 16 people remaining in town (they'll all be introduced next chapter). 4 traitors, 1 detective (good ol' Lalna), 1 survivalist, 1 phoenix, 1 jester (...if I can make that work) and 8 innocents (Daltos not included). Role revelations are gonna come in very soon and very bluntly so get your theories in quickly!


	2. Peace In Our Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, the traitors don't strike straight after the announcement is made. Instead, there's a couple hours of nothing, with everyone preparing or just pretending nothing is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: I introduce all the characters at once in one chapter because fun
> 
> Is there foreshadowing? Are there hints to certain roles? Idk I'm not that good a writer.
> 
> Also I tried to not use real names wherever possible but for some people (*cough* Ross and Lydia *cough*) I had nothing. I tried my best.

“Bedgar?”

Angor watches as the hoodie-clad man pipes up at the sound of his name, giving a small wave from where he’s seated on the other side of the roof. He’d come to the roof of their shared house for a quick smoke break, but the sight of his friend sitting with his knees hugged to his chest makes him pause.

“Hey, Angor,” Bedgar greets him, the cheerful chirp in his voice slightly dimmed. Releasing the hold on his legs, he leans back and rests his weight on his hands. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Angor says, crossing over and sitting down himself. “What about you?”

“I’m alright.” The answer sounds somewhat forced.

“Are you sure?” Angor asks. When Bedgar doesn’t immediately answer, he continues. “We all heard the announcement. Four traitors, somewhere in the town, ready to get rid of all of us. Yet you’re sitting on a roof, out in the open. What gives?”

Bedgar doesn’t say anything as he scans Angor’s face, looking for something that Angor doesn’t know. When he finds whatever he’d been looking for, he sighs. “Daltos is the only casualty so far. That was several hours ago. Nothing else has really happened yet and I kinda just...want to take in the peace, I guess. While we still have it.”

Angor hums. “That’s fair.”

A beat passes where neither of them say anything, and when Bedgar realises that Angor isn’t going to add on he looks over at him in confusion. “...That’s all you have to say?”

“Well, yeah. I get what you mean. Nothing else to say, really.” Angor flashes a friendly smirk which turns into a genuine smile when Bedgar lets out a chuckle, despite the tension still stewing within him.

“You’ve got an interesting mind, Angor,” Bedgar comments flippantly.

“Yeah I do,” Angor replies with ease. He can still see a hint of nerves in Bedgar’s eyes, and that just won’t do. “Hey. We’re gonna stick together in this, right? Sharky and Palp?”

At this, Bedgar laughs—an actual laugh that brightens him up instead of just an amused huff of breath—before bumping his shoulder against Angor’s playfully. With a proud grin, he sings: “Sharky and Palp!”

* * *

“OW! Watch it!”

“Don’t get hurt then, asshole.”

Despite his words, Smiffy loosens the bandage anyway, being more careful as he wraps it around Trott’s foot. On the other side of the couch, Ross watches over them.

“How’d this even happen, anyway?” he asks. Trott looks up at him and, for a moment, he hesitates.

“Walked in on the fight between Daltos and whoever killed him,” he explains with a hint of uncertainty, as if he’s worried they won’t believe him (or maybe he thinks the loss is still too fresh a wound). “Guy got me in the foot. I would’ve joined the fight, but I didn’t have any weapons, so I ran.”

“And now Daltos is dead,” Smiffy mutters, finishing the wrap with something of a flourish. There’s a bitter edge to his voice that Trott immediately picks up on.

“Hey, I...I tried, alright? I wanted to help. I just didn’t—”

“You didn’t have a gun or anything, I get it,” Smiffy waves him off, settling back on the couch. “I’m not blaming you. Still sucks, though.”

As believable as the explanation seems, something doesn’t sit right with Ross. “Did you see who the traitor is?”

“Nah. They were wearing a mask, and I didn’t recognise their clothes either.” Trott sighs and sinks into the couch, bandaged foot still elevated on the coffee table in front of him. “Trust me, if I knew the guy I would’ve turned them in long ago.”

“No, yeah, I trust you,” Ross says, still half-lost in thought. “It just would’ve been great if we could’ve gotten one of the guys immediately. Less to worry about.”

“I know.” The conversation drifts at this point, with Smiffy wanting to talk about something else and Trott eager to oblige, but even as Ross chats about old pets and laws about violence, his mind stays stuck on Trott’s story.

It distracts him for the rest of the day.

* * *

Like clockwork, Zylus finds himself setting up at the top of the tower.

The guard tower is his usual haunt most days, and the gun is a comforting weight in his hands. There’s still a slight shake in them from the memory of Daltos and the note, so his aim is noticeably less steady; but he’d come up here for the familiarity, and he’d never had any plans to shoot anyone anyway. He’s just overwatch.

The crackle of someone coming through comms is louder than he expects it to be.

_“Oh, look who’s up in the guard tower again,”_ Xephos’ voice rings out, and a flash of annoyance courses through Zylus. He scans all of the town he can see from his position, and sure enough he spots Xephos watching him from the ground near the shops. With a low growl, he grabs his radio from his pocket and brings it up to his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up, Xephos,” he snipes, this argument nothing new to either of them. “This is my favourite place, okay? It’s a vantage point.”

_“A vantage point for getting rid of witnesses, maybe,”_ Xephos replies, and he sounds so confident even though Zylus has no idea where he got that idea. _“Is this your way of helping out your traitor buddies?”_

“I’m not a traitor!” Zylus yells indignantly, fully aware of how defensive he sounds but a little too pissed to care. “I’m just keeping an eye out!”

_“You’re starting to sound suspicious, Zylus,”_ Xephos teases, the grin clear in his voice. It’s infuriating. _“Hey, at least if anyone gets snipped then we know who to suspect.”_

“Shut your _goddamn_ —”

_“Guys, shut up, jesus christ,”_ another voice speaks up through the comms, and Zylus almost weeps in relief. He faintly becomes aware that he’d been yelling down a public channel, but it doesn’t really matter because Rythian is a motherfucking saint. _“Some people are trying to sleep, you know.”_

_“It’s three in the afternoon,”_ Xephos points out confusedly.

_“Don’t worry about that,”_ Rythian brushes him off. _“Look, Xeph, you gotta stop winding Zylus up, because as funny as it can be, it can also get really annoying. And I won’t be surprised if you’re one of the first to go if you keep this up.”_

_Thanks, Rythian_ , Zylus thinks triumphantly.

_“And Zylus!”_

_Shit_.

_“Calm. Down. Nobody’s actually accusing you of being a traitor yet, so don’t make it worse for yourself, alright?”_

“I’m sorry, Rythian,” he mutters lowly.

_“That’s alright. Now_ _behave, you two.”_ With that, Rythian signs off, and Zylus takes that as his cue to leave too, not needing or wanting to hear what Xephos has to say on the matter. He doesn’t leave the tower—not particularly having anywhere else he needed to go—but he pulls his sniper away from the edge anyway, and settles for watching over the town without a scope.

* * *

“And how exactly did you figure out that you have a dark tunnel leading out the back of your house?”

“I got bored. Now shush, we’re here.”

Lydia watches in curiosity as Bouphe yanks open a metal trapdoor in the floor and clambers down. Following suit, she finds herself in a room just as dark as the tunnel they’d just came through, and she’s not quite sure what Bouphe had been so excited about until she hears a click of a switch and light floods her vision.

“Woah…”

The room they’re in is rather small—a cuboid of carved stone walls that she can’t stand straight in—and from wall to wall there are boxes and chests of _stuff_. Weapons, bulletproof vests and all manner of gadgets are piled into the boxes, and Lydia can only imagine that similar items are hidden in the chests as well.

Bouphe is grinning at her from the other side of the room.

“Pretty cool, huh?” she says, picking up a medkit from one of the boxes.

“Yeah…” Lydia says as she eyes the different types of guns she can see. Dragon elites, flare guns…nothing like the standard guns you can get from Wilsonator’s shop. It almost feels traitorous to be here. “Where are we?”

“The basement of the old dirt shop,” Bouphe explains, patting some metal rungs on the opposite wall. “This ladder leads up to the shop, behind the counter.”

“What, Sips’ old place?” Lydia asks for clarification, remembering the man who’d moved away some time ago. They’d never felt it necessary to change his shop, so apparently nobody had found out about his secret basement. “Why’s it connected to your place, then?”

“I think he used to live there,” Bouphe says, although she doesn’t sound certain. “Doesn’t matter, though. The important thing is that nobody else knows about this place, so nobody’s gonna notice if a few things go missing.”

“Ooh! I like the way you think!” Opening one of the chests, Lydia picks out a bulletproof vest and pulls it on, adjusting the squid hat on her head once she’s done. “How do I look?”

“Like a beautiful badass,” Bouphe says, and the two of them giggle as Bouphe takes off her jacket to pull her own vest on. When she’s done, she slips the spotted pink jacket back on. “What about me?”

“Also like a beautiful badass,” Lydia claims with a grin. “So no different to usual.”

“Aw, Lyds…”

They manage a second of seriousness before bursting into laughter again, and Bouphe picks up a pair of dragon elites to pose dramatically with.

“Don’t you worry, Lydia, I’m playing the survivalist, and I’m gonna protect you from the traitors!”

* * *

“That’ll be £15.”

Pedguin hands over the money and takes the bullets with a small nod, leaving the shop with a small wave back to Wilsonator.

The other two people in the shop don’t appear to be in a hurry to buy anything, but Wilsonator finds he doesn’t mind. Spiff is playing (breaking) some game on an old handheld console while he idly chats to Barry, who’s randomly holding an orange (not even eating it just...carrying it). It’s a bit strange, but Wilsonator sort of likes the company.

“And bam...infinite money,” Spiff announces, pointing out something on his screen to Barry, who huffs out a laugh.

“Everything’s about money for you, isn’t it?” he says.

“Hey, money is the funnest way to get through. Isn’t that right, Wilsonator?” Spiff calls out, and said man smiles at him from the counter.

“I dunno what you’re implying Spiff,” Wilsonator says back. “I don’t cheat my customers out of their money.”

Spiff laughs as Barry gives a low whistle. “Got ‘em,” the designer mutters under his breath.

“Alright, well, I wouldn’t do it in real life,” Spiff claims, attention still half on the game he’s exploiting. “I’m not _that_ evil.”

“Spiff is just gonna exploit the traitors into forgetting he’s there,” Barry jokes, but neither he nor Wilsonator miss the way Spiff freezes at the mention of the traitors.

“...I almost forgot about them,” he mutters, suddenly looking deflated and the slightest bit scared, completely unlike how the man usually is. It makes sense in hindsight—Spiff is one of the newest additions to the town, and hasn’t been through as much as some of the rest of them. This will be one of the first big events he’ll be part of, and it is one _hell_ of an event. Everyone’s lives are on the line.

Sensing the tension in the air, Wilsonator decides to try and lighten the mood. “I think Spiff’s a bit too young to be exploiting the actual economy and taking over the world,” he rattles off nonchalantly, watching the younger men closely. A bit random, but hopefully it’ll get him the results he’s after.

“We don’t talk about my age or anything personal about me,” Spiff quips, probably instinctively since all three of them are fully aware that he’s the youngest person in town—but the hidden fear has left his eyes and the playful mood has returned, so Wilsonator counts that as a win and lets the conversation continue.

* * *

_Is that Zoeya?_

Lalna eyes the figure walking across the street—the window has dirt smudged all over it, so he can’t actually make out the person’s face, but the orange shirt and rainbow wristbands make who he’s looking at obvious enough.

_Is that a bat?_

Swung over her shoulder, surely enough, is a baseball bat that she carries with an amusing amount of confidence. Zoeya doesn’t spot Lalna watching her from the window, and she swings the bat in front of her as a test for what looks like her own entertainment, before turning around a corner and ducking out of the detective’s sight.

Only now does Lalna question where Zoeya got the bat from. None of the shops still in business (meaning: Wilsonator’s gun shop) sell bats as far as he’s aware, and although he himself got a bat on a raid some years ago, he doesn’t remember giving it away.

_Maybe it used to be Saberial’s_. The thought comes to him out of nowhere and immediately he pauses, thinking it over. It seems likely—he’d never been close to Saberial personally but it feels like something they’d own—and it explains why _Zoeya_ has the bat. Maybe the thought of protection connected to her partner gives her comfort in this trust game the town has just entered. He can understand that.

With that thought, Lalna decides to drop the matter. _Yeah. That’s probably what’s going on here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated list of confirmed roles:  
> \- Lalna = Detective  
> \- Bouphe = Survivalist (I had her say it in case it wasn't obvious enough...)  
> \- Roles still unknown: all four traitors, jester, phoenix  
> \- Unconfirmed people: Bedgar, Angor, Smiffy, Trott, Ross, Zylus, Xephos, Rythian, Lyds, Wilsonator, Pedguin, Spiff, Barry, Zoeya
> 
> Also yes, Wilsonator has a gun shop because of his pooping guns gag.


	3. Matching Bracelets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zylus tries to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a lot of creative liberties to explain how in-game mechanics could possibly work in real life, so bear with me here. Also I don't know when this became a "let's bully Zylus" fic, but it did. Nothing against Zylus, but he's got quite a few TTT memes I can exploit.
> 
> I might try and aim to update this every week to the best of my ability. After all, every chapter is planned - I just need to write them.

The sky is already starting to darken when Zylus makes his way home. Realistically, he knows he shouldn’t have stayed out so late, with the darkness being a perfect cover for crimes and all that, but something in him just hadn’t wanted to leave the guard tower. There, in the sky, he’d had the advantage, the metaphorical and literal high ground—on the ground, he’s at the mercy of whoever chooses to charge him first. His proficiency is as a sniper, so close range fights could very well be the death of him.

That’s not a fun thought. But as long as he’s careful—

A hand clamps over his mouth, silencing the yelp that comes out of him. Another arm wrestles its way across his torso and without warning his assailant drags him into a nearby alley, shoving him against the wall with their hand still over his mouth. Something is clasped around his left wrist before his mind registers who exactly is in front of him.

“Don’t struggle. I’m not gonna kill you.”

_Trottimus?_

Zylus’ mind catches up to him as the face and voice of his attacker are finally matched to a name. There’s a bitter look in Trott’s eyes mixed with an odd hint of something— _tiredness, annoyance, grim determination_ —and at the sight of it, Zylus lets out a low growl. He’s sure that Trott hears it, despite being muffled.

“I’ll only explain if I know you’re not gonna cause a scene on me.”

 _Traitor, traitor, traitor_ , his mind is shouting, but Zylus forces his body to still and relax slightly anyway, settling for levelling Trott with a glare. He wants—no, _needs_ an explanation, because if Trott’s intent isn’t to kill him, then why the fuck had he just dragged him out of public sight?

Trott studies Zylus’ face for a couple more seconds before carefully taking his hand away from his mouth. “Thank you,” he says lowly, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out what looks like a small key. Without another word, he drags Zylus’ wrist up to eye level, letting Zylus see what had been clasped onto him. It’s a metal bracelet, a simple pattern carved in the middle of it with what looks like some sort of liquid inside, and Trott slides the key into a small lock on the side. He turns the key and with a click the bracelet tightens ever so slightly, and Zylus knows it’s locked. There’s a small pressure on his inner wrist that’s on the verge of being uncomfortable—but he’s not about to complain about it when it was put there by someone who has more power than him.

“What’s this?” he asks instead, the question coming out as more of a demand than intended, but Trott just smirks at him.

“I’m glad you asked,” he chirps, voice much too light for how tense the situation feels. “This is a little piece of technology I like to call a ‘deathlink’. In case you haven’t noticed yet, I’ve got one too.” Trott taps his right wrist—the one holding Zylus—which highlights his own identical metal bracelet. That knowledge brings no comfort whatsoever. “Inside these bracelets is a poison that’s strong enough to kill a man in about five seconds. Now, you see, Zylus, these two bracelets are linked to each other. They’re both monitoring our respective pulses, and if my bracelet detects that my heart has stopped beating…” He flicks Zylus’ wrist playfully. “Yours will immediately inject the poison directly into your bloodstream. And vice versa, of course, so don’t go dying on me, sunshine.”

Trott’s grinning, sick and sinister, at the disbelieving stare Zylus is giving him. “So if one of us dies, the other dies as well?” he clarifies, only because he doesn’t want to believe it. He’s at the mercy of whatever happens to a traitor?

“Ding-ding-ding! You got it!” Trott says, letting Zylus go and crossing his arms confidently over his chest. “So don’t go telling everyone about me, because they _will_ kill me, and I won’t stop them. You’ll just be taking yourself out, too.”

 _It would be worth it_ , he thinks for a second, but then pauses before he says it aloud. As nice as it would be to eliminate one of the traitors this early on, he doesn’t know what exactly Trott has up his sleeve, how much of a threat he is. What if this is Trott’s only plan—a simple fear tactic that guarantees the death of at least one innocent if he’s caught—and he isn’t intending on actually hurting anyone else? It’s not the most logical conclusion (in fact it’s almost completely improbable), but Zylus latches onto it anyway. He figures it’s worth trying to get the bracelet off first before leading himself to death, anyway.

And maybe, _just maybe_ , he’s a bit scared to die so soon. But he’s not about to admit that.

“You’re sick,” he hisses out instead, much to Trott’s annoying amusement. He considers trying to knock him unconscious out of spite—but again, Zylus isn’t the best at close range. The traitor would probably knock him out first.

“And you’re stuck with me,” Trott replies simply, taking a couple of steps back. “You can go now.”

Zylus gives him one last glare for good measure before pushing away from the wall, already fiddling with the slightly-too-tight bracelet. The press on his inner wrist makes him uncomfortably aware of how close the poison is to his body.

“Remember, don’t die!” Trott calls out much too cheerfully behind him, and Zylus bites back another growl.

Maybe he’ll kill himself to spite him. That would be one hell of a message to the traitors, for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trott: I trust you're capable enough to not die anytime soon
> 
> Zylus: imma take a dive off the guard tower lol


	4. Barry Plays a Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry spends the night walking through a quiet town. Bedgar finds him in an alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know they've introduced all of these exciting new roles that are really fun in-game, but I won't be adding those into this story because that would be one hell of a clusterfuck. However, for the most part I will be adding the "only detectives can search bodies" rule, but other than that everything is based off the old-school rules. Hope you don't mind.
> 
> TW - Major Character Death, explosions, gunshots, etc.  
> 

_Walking through the town at night is weirdly serene when you’re not constantly watching your back_ , Barry notes idly to himself as he strolls down the street. He passes dark alleys and hidden corners most people would usually be wary of and barely gives them a second glance, not caring for what could possibly be hidden in the dark. Instead, he finds his gaze lingering on the black sky above him, only a couple of stars punching holes into the blanket covering the night. It’s nothing dazzling, but it’s a surprisingly calm view to have hanging over a town like this.

He’s fully aware of what he looks like. Walking around outside, in the dark, not paying any attention to his surroundings? He’s either extremely suspicious, or an easy target.

Both of those will do just fine.

The problem with his plan is that it entirely depends on other people being outside too, which...with the state that the town is in, might not be something he can trust on happening. Which is understandable, and he’s prepared to wander the streets as many nights as he has to, it’s just a bit annoying. His sleeping schedule will be fucked, and he might have to do things during the day to garner a bit of attention too.

It’s more work he’d wanted to avoid. Why couldn’t someone just be outside?

After one full sweep of the small town (which, at his speed, takes at least two hours, although he isn’t really counting), Barry decides not to bank on tonight being his lucky night. Instead, he ducks into an alley opposite Wilsonator’s shop—away from where Zylus had found Daltos, which hadn’t been a pretty sight—and swiftly pulls himself up the fence separating the two streets. This action gives him access to the roof of another long-abandoned shop, which is where he settles in for a long night. It’s no guard tower, but he still has a decent view of part of the town, so he can keep an eye out for any movement.

Some people would think he’s looking out for potential dangers. They’d be right, but not for the reasons they’d think.

It takes at least a couple of hours of half-asleep lookout (which he knows because the barest hint of light has peaked above the horizon) before he finally catches some kind of movement in the corner of his eye. At the far end of the street is a figure, hunched and quiet, and from the looks of it they’re moving towards his location.

 _Finally_ , Barry can’t help but think to himself, stretching his legs and shifting to clamber off the building. Just as he does so, however, the unmistakable sound of a door creaking open pierces through the silent air, coming from the opposite side of the town. Another person has stepped foot into the night, and that means two chances for him to lure someone into a fight.

_Alright. Time to make another crime scene._

* * *

Bedgar stands stock still just out of sight of the alley, willing himself to not even _breathe_ too loudly. Just around the corner is Barry, leaning against the wall in a way that makes him look like he’s waiting for someone, except his eyes are closed. Whether he’s just resting his eyes or has actually fallen asleep against the wall is unknown to Bedgar, so he doesn’t want to make too much noise and get noticed. This is a chance he might never get again—there’s an unmoving target right before him who doesn’t know he’s there. If he messes this up, he may as well not try anymore.

Peeking back into the alley, Bedgar spots something he hadn’t noticed before: an oil barrel is sitting at the end of the alley, close enough to Barry that he’ll be caught in the explosion if the oil catches alight. All Bedgar has to do is shoot the barrel and finish off Barry if the blast doesn’t fully kill him, and then run off so he’s nowhere near the scene when people come to investigate the noise.

It’ll be that easy. Surely.

Stepping quietly so he’s completely in front of the alley, Bedgar raises his pistol and aims, pretending he doesn’t notice the shake in his arm. _Pull the trigger_ , his mind whispers to him, _prove that you can do this_.

He fires.

Barry’s eyes fly open at the sound of the shot (and Bedgar confirms to himself that he hadn’t been asleep, with how quickly he’d reacted), flicking over to Bedgar while a hand grabs at his side as if he thinks the shot went through him. A second later, his gaze moves to the oil barrel next to him that just caught fire.

Bedgar flinches away from the scene when the barrel explodes.

When he looks back, however, he sees something he never expected: Barry, scorched and bruised, still standing against the wall and nowhere as near death as Bedgar wants him to be. In the couple seconds of shock that it takes him to process this, Barry pulls out his own gun.

“Why aren’t you dead?!” Bedgar yells in panic, fully aware that he’s being much too loud, especially if anyone else is around to hear him. Without thinking, he charges forward, the need to _get rid of Barry_ on the forefront of his mind—so he realises too late that Barry has pointed his gun straight at his chest and fired.

There’s no pain, though, and Bedgar doesn’t even hear the bullet. Is Barry firing blanks?

He pulls his own gun up again and, without actively aiming, fires a second time. With a gasp, Barry stumbles, his hand flying to his stomach while his gun slips out of his grip. Still running, Bedgar collides with Barry and both of them fall to the ground. Bedgar, now on top of Barry, brings his gun to the younger man’s temple.

...Barry’s smiling. Despite the loaded gun pointed at his head, he’s smiling at Bedgar as if he just won some sort of game.

Freaked out, he pulls the trigger.

…

“Bedgar?!”

At the sound of his name, Bedgar’s head whips up to see Bouphe standing at the entrance to the alley, looking completely shocked at what she had just come across. Still perched over Barry’s limp body, Bedgar knows he can’t explain himself.

He needs to run. Or shoot, his gun still has a couple rounds left. Hell, he just has to do _something_. But his body is frozen, that _goddamn smile_ burned into his mind, and Bouphe’s got a gun pointed at him and he just needs to _move_ —

The gun fires. He isn’t smiling.

* * *

“What’s that on his ankle?”

Angor watches as Lalna pulls down Bedgar’s sock, revealing a small tattoo of a red gun he hadn’t known was there. It’s a design that none of them have seen before, and Angor comes to the sickening conclusion just as Lalna voices it.

“This must be something all of the traitors have.” He stands up, looking back at Bouphe and Angor with an unreadable expression. “I’ve seen these kinds of things before, gangs have done it to signify which group they belong to.”

“So what?” Bouphe asks, voice still slightly shaky. “We check everyone’s ankles and kick out the people with that tattoo?”

“They might not all have it on their ankles, though,” Lalna points out. Angor isn’t really listening—his focus is on his old friend, lying dead on the ground. When he’d woken up this morning to the sound of gunshots and wandered out to see Bouphe standing shell-shocked in the streets, he hadn’t expected to look down an alley and see the bodies of two of his closest friends slumped over each other. Mindlessly, he’d pinged the detective—but he hasn’t said anything since. “Makeup exists too, so some of them might cover it up if we say we’re gonna search. Basically, the only way we can look for the tattoo is when...um, when they’re dead.”

“Oh.” Bouphe pauses, and Angor knows she’s looking at the bodies too. “Are you gonna make an announcement about this?”

“...I’ll have to think about it,” Lalna replies, watching over the two _alive_ people in front of him with concern. “I know I’ll have to announce the deaths of these two, but I don’t know about the tattoos. Maybe...I think you two should go home, recover a bit. I’ll take care of these two.”

Bouphe looks at Lalna for a moment before sighing. “Alright,” she says, turning away from the alley. “I’ll...see you guys later, I guess.”

Lalna watches her go for a couple of seconds before turning back to Angor, who hasn’t moved. Gently, he places a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Angor,” he says, and finally Angor’s eyes shift off the bodies. “I know how much he meant to you.”

Angor stares at him numbly, hardly taking in the words. “...I’m gonna go home.”

Lalna lets him go easily enough, and with lead in his limbs Angor trudges back to the house that, until this morning, he had shared with Bedgar.

_Dammit, Bedgar. We were supposed to be Sharky and Palp._

_Why did you betray me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barry was the jester in case it wasn't clear enough. That means the jester and one traitor have been eliminated.
> 
> Also, what a Ben play. Try to blow up the jester, then kill him and don't run away when someone finds you with the body. Good job, Bedgar.


	5. Hiding Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zylus sets out to hide in the guard tower all day. He gets distracted before he gets there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? It's another bullying Zylus chapter! (Might be the last one for a bit, maybe, we'll see how things pan out.)
> 
> Also, you know a couple of chapters ago when I said this might update weekly? Yeah, that might change. Exams are on the horizon and it is taking me a lot more time to write these than I thought it would. So chapters will come out a bit less consistently, but I will finish this story, and you can hold me to that!
> 
> Reminder: chapter titles that don't have character names do not feature death. Enjoy them while they last.

The damned bracelet just won’t budge.

Zylus had stayed up all night trying to unlock the thing, first with brute strength and then with any tool he could find in his apartment, but the lock simply hadn’t given. When daylight finally arrived again, he had given up and grabbed some old sweatbands in the back of his closet, pulling one over the offending metal. With a quick thought, he’d put the other one on too, just to make himself look even slightly less suspicious.

Looking at them now, Zylus knows that was a futile attempt. Sweatbands just aren’t part of his usual wardrobe.

At least he doesn’t have to look at the bracelet every second now.

Walking the long way around town with his sniper case in hand (and adamantly avoiding the area where there had been the sound of an explosion and gunshots), Zylus makes his way to the guard tower where he’ll camp out and ignore everyone for the day. He has a sandwich and a small water bottle stored in the case, and luckily for him the tower has a bathroom, so he’ll have no need to leave. Maybe, though, he’ll go back home before sunset.

He just needs to ignore everything around him and get to the guard tower.

Without getting distracted by anything.

_Don’t—_

“What the fuck are you doing?”

 _Dammit, Zylus_.

Unsurprisingly, he’s run into Xephos, who is currently sitting in an alley and setting fire to...something (Zylus can’t make out what it is from where he’s standing). The man doesn’t look up from what he’s doing when he responds.

“Leave me alone, Zylus.” His tone is dejected and bitter, with an unexpected sharpness that has Zylus taking a step back. Logically, he knows he should just leave and avoid any unnecessary confrontation—but instead he stays put, eyeing the small flames licking away at whatever Xephos is holding.

“Why the fuck are you burning stuff?” he asks, his hand subconsciously curling into a fist. The only gun he has on him is his sniper, which is disassembled, so he’ll have to rely on his own strength and intuition if Xephos decides to attack him. Best be prepared.

“None of your business,” Xephos all but growls, finally looking up from the fire he’s holding and pocketing his lighter. His eyes trail over the person in front of him and lock into his wrists. “Why the fuck are you wearing sweatbands?”

“This is perfectly normal,” Zylus protests. It’s not, but he’s not about to take the sweatbands off.

“It’s perfectly suspicious is what it is,” Xephos argues, standing up and letting the burning object fall to the ground to fizzle out on its own. “Lalna just announced that he’s got a way to identify traitors, you know. Didn’t tell us what that method is, but it’s probably something they have on their bodies if he only found it after one of them died. And all of a sudden you’ve shown up wearing ugly sweatbands that I’ve never seen you wear before.”

“I burned myself last night,” Zylus claims quickly, because he cannot afford to have Xephos thinking he’s hiding a traitor mark. He can’t take off the sweatbands to prove himself because the bracelet is there and that would be even more suspicious, and then Xephos might kill him because Lalna didn’t tell anyone what the goddamn traitor mark is and he might jump to conclusions. Which would supposedly kill Trott as well, but still. There’s a chance the traitor was lying about that.

“You burned your wrists?” Xephos, somewhere along the way, had started moving closer, and now there’s only a couple feet between them.

“And you were just burning a bunch of shit in order to get rid of it,” Zylus points out. _Deflection, but hopefully he doesn’t realise that._

“I— I said that’s none of your business!” Xephos shouts, and there’s genuine anger (panic?) in his voice as he does so.

“So you can hide something but I can’t?”

“Fucking shut up—!”

The push is unexpected enough that it sends Zylus reeling backwards, stumbling over his feet to stay upwards. Without thinking, he lets his sniper case slip out of his hand (and it lands on the ground with a heavy thud that he’ll regret later) and lunges forwards himself, shoving Xephos hard enough that the man can’t catch himself before falling on his backside.

“Son of a—”

Xephos is quick to bounce back, forcefully shoving himself to his feet and curling his hand into a fist.

Zylus isn’t fast enough to dodge when he swings.

Xephos’ fist lands with a sickening crunch, hitting him square in the face and sending him back once again. Ignoring the pain that blooms from his nose, Zylus gathers himself up and swings back, aiming for Xephos’ shoulder. He only clips him, but it’s enough to aggravate a retaliation, and suddenly their small chat has devolved into a full-blown fist fight.

It’s clear that neither of them have any idea what they’re doing when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, but still they punch and kick at each other like their lives depend on it. Zylus gets a hit on Xephos’ head, Xephos jabs Zylus in the gut, but neither of them pay any attention to the pain as they focus solely on beating the other person up.

“Why are you like this?!” Zylus barks out at one point, still swinging as he does so.

“Like what, exactly?!”

“Alone. A hider. A fucking— dick!”

“I wasn’t always alone!” Xephos shouts, and his stance falters a bit as he does so. “You were here before Honeydew moved, weren’t you?”

“Why are you so unwilling to let him go?” Zylus asks angrily, shoving Xephos in the shoulder. “There are plenty other people in this town you could have gotten close to when he left!”

“I did! And now one of them’s fucking _dead!”_

“Freeze!” someone shouts, not that Zylus hasn’t already frozen from what Xephos just said. After a beat, both of them turn slowly to see Spiff standing nearby, assault rifle in hand and pointed at the two of them. He looks worried, almost desperately so. “Alright, calm down…”

Zylus quickly surveys the man—his stance is steady but his eyes show uncertainty, and his finger is clear of the trigger. Spiff probably isn’t planning to shoot them; instead, he’s just using his gun as a way to get them to stop fighting.

Xephos growls lowly as he realises the same thing.

“You’re lucky I didn’t wanna kill you,” he says to Zylus, stuffing his hands in his pockets. With a thought, he continues. “And if you really want to know so badly, I was burning an old photo I had of me and Bedgar. That’s it.”

Having said everything he wanted to say, Xephos turns and starts walking off. Spiff lowers his gun as he does so.

“Why?” Zylus asks belatedly, glancing back at where the charred remains of an old photograph are settled on the ground.

“It’s still none of your business,” Xephos snaps, not turning around but stopping for a moment anyway. “...I’ll see you on the other side of this hell-game, Zylus. Whether you’re dead or alive.”

With that, he takes his leave, not another word said between them.

“...Are you alright?” Spiff speaks up, picking up Zylus’ sniper case from where it had toppled over earlier. “Your nose is bleeding.”

“Huh?” Bringing a hand up to his face, Zylus isn’t surprised when it comes away crimson and wet. The pain is still there, just duller and more uncomfortable than anything, probably due to the adrenaline that’s slowly ebbing out of him. “Oh. He broke it. That’s fine, I...there’s a first aid kit in the guard tower, I think. I can handle it. Uh...thanks, Spiff.”

Gratefully, he takes back his sniper, but Spiff still seems troubled as he hands it over. “He...doesn’t actually think this whole thing is just a game, does he? A game is a bit of fun, but this is…”

 _Life or death_ , Zylus fills in the rest of the tentative sentence. _This is a matter of life or death_. Abruptly, he’s reminded of the metal digging into his wrist. He doesn’t linger on it. “I don’t think he does, but you know...what would you call it?”

Spiff seems stumped at that, if the subsequent silence is anything to go by, and Zylus takes that as his cue to leave. With an appreciative nod at the younger man, he turns and finally returns to his trek to the guard tower.

This time, he won’t stop for any distractions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zylus: I have a plan for today and I will stick to the plan and not do anything else that may get me in trouble.
> 
> Xephos: *is in an alley*
> 
> Zylus: ...That son of a bitch-


	6. Pedguin Has a Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pedguin does not have a good time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think quarantine would give me more time to write, but after spending 5 hours a day sitting at my computer doing school work, most of my free time is actually spent away from the computer. But now it's the holidays, and I'm not doing anything else, so here we go!
> 
> TW - death and blood. A section of this chapter mentions quite a bit of blood so if you wanna miss the worst of it, skip from 'a smoky gun in his hands' to "What the hell happened here?"

“You’re hurt.”

Xephos rolls his eyes as he approaches Lalna, leftover anger still thrumming in his veins.

“I’m fine,” he says, crossing his arms tightly against himself. “A black eye never killed anyone.”

“You’re not...wounded, are you? Like, badly?” Lalna asks, reaching out to his friend to check for any more damage than the swollen eye that’s currently staring at him defensively.

“It’s just bruises. I got into a fist fight.”

“With who?”

“I think you know.”

Lalna stares at Xephos for a second before it clicks, and he backs out of his personal space with a sigh. “Did he start it?”

“...I did,” Xephos admits, refusing to look Lalna in the eye. “I mean, he talked to me, but...I swung first.”

“Dammit, Xephos,” Lalna says. “You gotta stop doing that. Stop, you know, antagonising him, he hasn’t done anything wrong yet.”

“...I know.”

* * *

_Crack!_

“OW!” The force of the assault sends Pedguin sprawling to the ground, pain blooming in the side of his chest where he’d been hit by... _whatever_ had just hit him. With a groan, he shifts to push himself up from the ground, the sharp and familiar protest of his ribs letting him know that a couple have probably cracked. Unfortunately for him, his familiarity with the feeling doesn’t make it any less painful.

Scrambling to push himself back upright, his eyes latch onto the iconic sight of rainbow wristbands, and his mind supplies him with the name of the short woman that’s towering over him.

Poised like a cat ready to pounce, Zoeya raises the bat in the air.

Pedguin quickly rolls out of the way as the bat comes flying towards him, more out of survival instinct rather than actual conscious choice, and he immediately tries to think of every option he has in this situation. _I could run, running is a pretty good idea, I don’t have to hurt her—but she’s faster than me and has a bat, she can catch up easily, dammit. Gun, I bought bullets yesterday, I’m not a good shot but it would warn— nope, left my gun at home, why did I leave my gun at home? Fuck, uh, knife?_

He’s on his feet by the time he gets the idea and his hand flies to the sheath on his hip, taking out his knife in utter relief as Zoeya recovers from the force of her own swing. It’s not the best solution ( _because it’s a knife against a bat, he can do more damage but Zoeya has the range, and he’s not all that good with this thing anyway_ ) but he’s hoping the threat of a blade will cause some hesitance, make her back off.

She does react to the knife, jolts a bit in surprise, but Pedguin can’t read any of the emotion on her face because he’s a bit too busy panicking himself. His ribs complain as his chest heaves.

“Why are you—” he sputters out, trying to gather his wits while Zoeya isn’t moving, watching the knife in his shaky hand. “Zo, why—”

“Don’t call me that!” Zoeya cries, hands tightening on the bat before she swings, messy and uncoordinated and further away from him than before. Pedguin almost screws up the dodge anyway.

“What—”

“You don’t get to call me that!”

She swings again and this time he ducks below it, rushing forward and slashing his knife up blindly. There’s a cry from above him and Zoeya stumbles backwards, bat dropping from her grip as her hands fly up to a large gash on her face. Blood is already starting to drip from the wound.

Without another thought, he flees.

* * *

Pedguin has no idea where in town he is, only that he’s been running for long enough that as long as Zoeya hasn’t been directly behind him the whole time, she won’t find him immediately.

Taking refuge behind an abandoned shop (and he doesn’t know which one because this town has seen enough people come and go), he huddles as far away from the main street as he can manage and _breathes_. It hurts to do so, an ever-present reminder that some of his ribs are definitely broken, but he does it anyway because he needs to think clearly and to do that he needs to relax and to relax he needs to breathe.

Any progress he makes is instantly erased the moment Wilsonator steps around the corner.

“What the fuck?!” Wilsonator shouts, pistol instantly cocked and pointed at Pedguin because he’s smart enough to have a gun on him at all times. Pedguin yelps but otherwise doesn’t move, frozen to his spot as he stares down the weapon. “Pedguin?”

“Wilsonator,” he gasps, and the panic is building up again—but instead of fueling him like before, it freezes him. “I—”

“Why do you have a knife?” Wilsonator asks, and Pedguin suddenly remembers the weapon he’s still holding in a death grip. “Is that blood? Pedguin, why do you have a bloody knife?!”

Shit, this looks bad. “Wilsonator, I can explain—”

“Why were you hiding? You stabbed someone, didn’t you? Wait—” Wilsonator’s hands tighten on his pistol, “You were going to ambush me, weren’t you?!”

“No! What do you mean?!” Pedguin shouts, desperate because _he’s got it all wrong_. “I was attacked—”

“Bullshit!” Wilsonator interrupts, and _fuck, that’s the end, isn’t it?_ “I don’t believe you!”

“It’s the truth! I promise! It was self-defense! I didn’t kill anyone!” He’s practically begging now, pushing himself up from the floor so he’s standing level with Wilsonator—but then there’s a bang. There’s a bang and a flash of pain and Wilsonator is standing panicked and shocked with a smoky gun in his hands.

Pedguin coughs, a strong metallic taste instantly filling his mouth, and he crumples back to the floor. _Fuck_ , if he thought cracked ribs felt bad, then the new pain in his chest is something else. He coughs again, choking and spluttering as he watches his own blood make itself known. The knife slips from his grasp.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” Wilsonator is muttering, gun still in hand but at least not pointed at Pedguin anymore. “Shit, I...oh _fuck_.”

The pain is too much, engulfing his body and blurring his vision, and Pedguin finds himself struggling to keep his eyes open. “Wasn’t...lying…” he gets out between the coughs and gags, although the reason why he felt the need to say that is far from his mind now. He tries one last time to focus the image of the man standing in front of him, but when it proves too difficult a task he gives up and lets his eyes slip shut.

Wilsonator watches in horror and shock as the coughs racking the other man’s body start to slow. When the final bit of blood spurts out of Pedguin's mouth, he still doesn’t move.

“What’s going on over here? I heard a gunshot.” That was Lalna. _Shit_ , the detective’s here. What does he say? “Wilsonator?”

He doesn’t respond, can’t bring himself to do anything but stare at Pedguin’s unmoving body. They can’t save him, can they? He can see way too much blood.

“What the hell happened here?”

Both Lalna and Xephos step into view, the latter looking over Wilsonator in concern while the detective approaches the body. “Wilsonator? We’re gonna need you to answer us.”

“I shot him…” Wilsonator mutters, _admits_ , and he feels Xephos’ hand pull away from him slightly, sees Lalna stutter in his search. “It was an...he started moving and I panicked, so…”

Nobody says anything as Lalna continues to search Pedguin, looking for whatever mark told him the person was a traitor. After what seems like forever, he stands up and faces them, expression unreadable. “He was innocent, Wilsonator. We’re gonna need a good explanation from you.”

 _Fuck_. Is this how he made Pedguin feel?

* * *

Wilsonator doesn’t have the tattoo either.

“GODDAMMIT!” Lalna yells, pushing himself away. There are two bodies in front of him now, and neither belong to a traitor. He’s responsible for one of them.

There are still three traitors running around town and the body count is going up. This isn’t good.

“I mean, you might have done a good thing,” Xephos says, an attempt of comfort that isn’t all that useful since his voice is so shaky. A glance at the man shows he’s also trying not to panic. “If what he told us was true, then Wilsonator had a twitchy trigger finger. He might have ended up causing more damage in the future.”

“...Yeah, okay.” It’s a poor excuse that definitely doesn’t make anything okay, but Lalna latches onto it anyway, desperate for any kind of justification for the execution. He can’t take it back, so...he’ll have to learn to live with it. “Alright. Let’s just...get the stuff for cleanup.”

Xephos nods at him and takes off, and Lalna does make to follow, except he hesitates and looks back at the bodies once more.

_I’m the detective. The town needs me, I have to make difficult decisions. It’s always been like this._

He’s no longer that confident about his position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really had no idea how to write Pedguin and Wilsonator if I'm completely honest. That's not the reason why I killed them off, but it's my excuse as to why this chapter took so long.


	7. The Things Ross Sees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smiffy, Ross and Trott go out for a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should not take me so long to write these, but I keep getting distracted by writing other things (and also video games, but...shush. Mainly writing other things.)
> 
> As an apology, here's a scene that's been an idea since I started planning the story.

Rythian is merely walking down the street when a blur of colour shoves past him. Turning in surprise, he catches sight of Zoeya—bat held loosely in one hand and a bloody gash on her cheek—fumbling to open the door to her house. For a moment, he considers going after her to check if she’s okay; but his current task is important, and he doesn’t exactly have time to detour.

Oh well. Hopefully everything’s alright. Rythian knows she’s capable, Zoeya can probably figure out what she needs.

With a shrug, Rythian continues walking.

* * *

The evening air, as much as Smiffy complains about it, doesn’t feel that cold to Ross. It’s _colder_ than it was earlier in the day, but it’s not _freezing_ , and Smiffy’s actually wearing his jacket for once so he really shouldn’t be complaining.

“You’re the weird one here,” Smiffy always says, everytime Ross tries to argue it isn’t cold. “You’re never cold, even though you never wear a jacket. You’re always, like, kinda warm. You exude warmness. That’s one of the reasons why I hang out with you so much.”

Trott doesn’t say anything on the matter, but that’s because he’s always wearing his massive coat with the tiger hood, so he’s usually more likely to overheat than freeze. That means the cold is only Smiffy’s problem, and he still hasn’t quit complaining.

The three of them are out on a walk, wanting to chat without the monotonous boredom of lounging around their shared house (Trott’s idea), and despite everything Ross isn’t all too worried about being out under a darkening sky. He trusts these two—they’ve never done anything to hurt him, after all—and the three of them are definitely capable enough to take on a traitor and come out alive. With Smiffy in the front checking corners and Trott watching their back, Ross thinks nothing should be able to get them.

That lack of worry is probably the reason why Ross doesn’t turn around when he hears Trott cock his shotgun behind him.

Smiffy’s making some odd comment about virus protection when it happens. One second he’s rolling his eyes, the next there’s a flash of pain, and the second after that Ross feels his consciousness get shoved out his body as it falls to the ground, lifeless and bloody.

_What the fuck?_

For a second he’s disoriented, trying to figure out the _what_ and _why_ and _how the hell_ , when it clicks. There’s a memory of a different town, years ago, and a woman who he’d managed to piss off somehow. She’d...done something to him, he doesn’t quite remember, called him a phoenix and spat out some bullshit about two extra chances. One of those chances got used up a week later, when someone had bombed the town and he’d been too close to the blast zone to escape. His consciousness had been flung out of his body and he’d watched himself crumple to the ground—just like now—and when he’d blinked his eyes open and found himself back in his own alive body, he’d grasped his second chance and fled. Nobody can question how you’re alive if they never knew you were dead in the first place, after all.

The woman had called it a curse, all that time ago. That first time, it didn’t feel like a curse at all. Now, the second time, he’s starting to understand.

He can do nothing but watch, helpless, as Smiffy spins around and spots his body, which Trott is calmly and _coldly_ stepping over.

“Ross…?” Smiffy whispers in shock, almost whimpering, and that sound does not sound right coming from the usually overconfident man. His eyes stay glued to Ross’ body, even as Trott stalks towards him with his shotgun poised and ready. “What the fuck…”

“Be quiet,” Trott says, voice void of any emotion. That sound isn’t right either. Ross has seen this scenario before, in video games. Trott would play the role of the villain, chasing after Ross and Smiffy with laughter and a sick sense of glee in his tone. Never completely emotionless, like he is now.

Granted, now they aren’t in a video game.

“What the _fuck_ , mate?!” Smiffy yells, despite Trott’s demand. “Why did you— why would you—?!”

“I _said_ , shut the FUCK UP, Smiffy!” Trott roars, hitching the shotgun higher so it’s pointed at Smiffy’s head, and Smiffy freezes. His hand twitches by his hip, where his pistol is holstered, but there is no way he’d be able to pull it out before Trott fires. Trott has the faster trigger finger, they all know that. And Smiffy probably wouldn’t be able to bring himself to shoot Trott anyway.

“Why…?” Smiffy breathes out again, his eyes flickering to Ross’ unmoving body, and Ross can hear the tears hidden behind that single word. Smiffy never cries. It sounds like he’s _damn close_ , though.

Ross wants to hug him. Wants to pull him away, protect him, stand between him and the shotgun, wants to yell for this all to stop because clearly none of them want this, not even Trott. He wants to close his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the inevitable.

He can’t. Instead, he can only watch as Trott grits his teeth and pulls the trigger.

Smiffy falls to the ground with questions in his eyes and a single tear track travelling down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Trott mutters, so low and quiet that it’s a miracle Ross manages to catch it. He stands over Smiffy for a minute, staring emotionlessly, before turning to look at where Ross’ body is lying and Ross is watching him. Where Trott doesn’t know that Ross is watching him.

After a stretch of silence, Trott growls, ripping his gaze away from the bodies of his two best friends and running from the scene.

 _Damn this phoenix curse_ , Ross thinks to himself, left alone with Smiffy and his own body. He’ll be alive again in the next few minutes, and Smiffy will stay dead. Without a doubt, he knows that he’d rather be dead as well.

* * *

Lydia is on her way home when she turns the corner and is met with the sight of Ross and Smiffy’s bodies.

“Woah! Oh no! What happened here?”

Blood pools around Smiffy’s head, and his face is almost unrecognisable. Ross, on the other hand, looks unharmed, despite the floor around him also having traces of blood.

The previously assumed lifeless body of Ross groans. Lydia shrieks in surprise.

“Ugh...what? Lydia?”

“Ross! You’re alive!” Lydia says, not knowing what else she was supposed to say. “Okay, alright. Um. What happened here?!”

Ross hesitates, and then: “Trott happened.” It’s the most bitter she’s ever heard him.

“Wait, Trott did this?” Lydia repeats, when the words register. She looks back down at where Smiffy is sprawled across the floor. Maybe they hadn’t hung out recently, but Lydia has spent enough time around these boys for that to not quite make sense. “Why would he…?”

“Probably because he’s a traitor,” Ross says, pushing himself up. One hand drifts to the back of his head, as if he’s feeling for something, and drops back down again when he doesn’t find anything. “But that’s just my guess.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah, that makes sense.” It’s the only logical reason for something like this to happen, she decides. Her eyes land back on Ross. “...Oh! Sorry, are you okay?”

“...I’m alive,” he answers, and now he’s looking at Smiffy, sadness and anger dancing in his eyes. “That good enough for you?”

“I guess being alive is what matters,” Lydia says, before she finally realises something. That blood surrounding Ross is his, right? Who else could it be from? “Wait! How are you alive? If Trott is a traitor, and he attacked you, why would he leave you—”

“I don’t know, Lydia,” Ross interrupts her bitingly, shooting her an annoyed look, and she shuts her mouth. “Probably magic or some bullshit. It doesn’t matter.” So he doesn’t want to talk about it. Alright, fine. That’s fine.

He’s probably grieving. After all, he just went through the death of a friend and the death of a friendship. She’s not about to judge.

“Do you need somewhere to stay the night?” she asks after a bout of semi-awkward silence. It’s a sensible question, because with Smiffy gone and Trott officially an enemy (who might not even know Ross is alive, now that she thinks about it), Ross probably shouldn’t go back to their shared house.

It takes him a while to answer, his gaze slipping back down to the body of his best friend, but eventually he looks back up at Lydia and quietly says: “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Lydia OOC? Probably. Ah well, I tried.
> 
> Also, sorry for my shitty attempt at explaining the phoenix. Let's just say it's magic. Why not.


	8. A Pact Is Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zylus and Angor have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suddenly got a bunch of inspiration back and wrote this over the weekend, and I feel bad for leaving this for such a long time, so here's the next chapter as an apology. Let's give Zylus something nice for once, yeah?

“What are you doing out here?”

“Morning, Zylus,” Angor says, greeting the man on the rooftop across from him. Zylus scoffs.

“Oh yeah, it’s morning alright,” he says. “Two in the morning. Again, what are you doing out here?”

“I could ask the same to you,” Angor points out. “This is normal for me. You, on the other hand, I have never seen outside at night.”

“I— that’s not true,” Zylus argues. “We’ve done shit together at night before.”

Angor shrugs noncommittally. “Alright. I’ve never seen you _alone_ outside at night, then.”

“Touché,” Zylus says, and gestures towards Angor. “Mind if I…?”

“Go ahead.”

With an ease only possible through practice, Zylus swings himself over the rooftop railing and throws himself across the small gap between the buildings, catching the railing on the other side and pulling himself up. He often wonders what he’d been thinking when he’d decided to learn street parkour as a teenager, but he has to admit, it comes in handy sometimes. Especially in a town like this.

“Nice bracelet,” is all Angor says as Zylus pulls up next to him, used to Zylus’ random acts of skill by now. He doesn’t miss the way Zylus tenses, glancing guiltily and bitterly at said bracelet, before subconsciously shifting that arm out of sight.

“Thanks,” he mutters, and Angor drops the subject. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t have to. “And to answer your question, I couldn’t sleep. Too much is happening right now, my mind won’t shut up.”

“I hear you there,” Angor says. “Shit is _fucked_.”

They stand side-by-side for a moment, looking out over a dark town that for once is still (and thank goodness for that). The quiet is becoming more and more prevalent the higher the body count rises, so when the one moment that should be quiet is exactly how it’s supposed to be? They need to take that and bask in it before the chance is gone.

“...How are you holding up?” Zylus asks eventually, because he wants to know. He wants to know how Angor seemingly hasn’t changed when everything around them has been going to shit.

The metal presses into his wrist.

“Honestly?” Angor says with a low (sad) chuckle. “I’m not. I’m used to Bedgar being around, looking for things to do all the time. Now that he’s not...and he can’t really come back...I’m not doing anything anymore. Nothing feels like it should be done.”

“Oh.” Zylus pauses, thinking that over. He’s not surprised; Angor and Bedgar had been two of the closest people in town, glued to the hip and the best of friends. They’d been Sharky and Palp. But after Bedgar’s betrayal to the town—and subsequent death—he really shouldn’t be surprised to know that Angor hasn’t bounced back as much as Zylus thought he had. “Do you...do you wanna stay at mine for a bit?” _Do you want to get away from the house that still holds so many remnants of_ him _?_

For a moment, Angor considers it. He thinks it over, not looking at Zylus, simply gazing over the town. Zylus watches with him, taking in the cloudy sky with only a smattering of stars. It’s the most stars he’s seen in a while, and suddenly he realises how much he really _hasn’t_ been outside at night.

Eventually, Angor sighs. “Thanks, but...nah. I know he betrayed everyone, betrayed _me_ , but staying away from the house feels...too much like I’m running away from him. Like I’m…”

“Like you’re betraying him back?” Zylus guesses, and Angor nods.

“I guess, yeah.” He leans heavier on the railing, slouched and distant. “I know it shouldn’t matter, with the way things turned out, but...I don’t like the thought. I still consider him a friend, you know?”

“I get that,” Zylus says, absently fiddling with the bracelet. Then, after a moment, “I hate this.”

“I agree with you there.”

“It’s just bullshit!” Zylus exclaims, and all of a sudden he can’t stop. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realises that he’s never actually said any of this out loud, never felt like he could say it to anyone, but Angor is here and Zylus knows he’ll understand. “We were doing alright! We were all okay! But suddenly we can’t trust anyone and people are dropping like flies and all we can do is try to survive. And I just...I dunno. I’m powerless. It’s bullshit.” He groans, running a hand down his face. “I just want to be able to trust somebody!”

“I like to think we can trust each other,” Angor points out, and Zylus freezes at the words. “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t trust me, but I feel like you won’t be doing anything to me any time soon.”

“I swear to god, Angor, if you betray me now, I’m kicking your ass in the afterlife,” Zylus threatens, knowing he’s more bark than bite but still meaning every word. “Seriously. You will forever be known as a traitor to me, until the end of time.”

“How about we make that a pact, then?” Angor proposes, almost challenging. “From now until this entire thing is over, if either of us betrays the other, then they will be forever known as a traitor, in life and out of it. A forever traitor pact.”

“A forever traitor pact?” Zylus repeats, and despite how incredulous he sounds (and how useless the promise will be in the long run, especially if they die), he’s never felt more grateful. Ever since his fate was locked onto his wrist, he’s been hiding from everyone, fearing questions and waiting for the poison to be injected into his bloodstream. Ever since he found Daltos and Lalna found the note, he’s been waiting for someone to turn around and shoot him in the face. Now, with a close friend standing by his side, he might finally be able to trust someone again. “I can get behind that.”

“Then that decides that. Forever traitor.”

“Forever traitor...it sounds kinda stupid, don’t you think?”

“How dare you question the seriousness of forever traitor?” Angor says, a small smile on his own face to match the one that has creeped onto Zylus. “This is a very serious affair, Zylus!”

The ridiculousness of it pulls a short laugh from Zylus’ mouth. “Alright, I’m sorry for questioning it! I promise to never say anything against forever traitor again.”

The two of them laugh at each other quietly, snickering under the stars. When they calm down again, Angor turns to Zylus, somewhat content for the first time in what feels like ages.

“Do you think we’ll be alright?” he asks.

“Fucking— _no_ ,” Zylus replies, sounding almost scandalised at the idea. “Of course not. But all we can really do is try to survive, you know?”

“Yeah,” Angor agrees, leaning all of his weight on the railing again. “I get that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this peace while it lasts. I don't know how long it will be until it's back.


	9. Something Goes Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A call is made. Meanwhile, Lalna goes on a search.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have been reading this as it updates and haven't noticed yet: I went back and changed the chapter titles so they no longer spoil who's going to die in each chapter. However, the rule still stands that if the chapter title includes someone's name, there will be death in the chapter - just not necessarily the death of the person named.
> 
> I also included a fun little cameo in this chapter! Hope you enjoy.

_“...That sure is an interesting situation you’ve found yourself in.”_

“No kidding.”

_“Seriously! I move out and not a month later you go and shoot up the town.”_

“That’s not— it hasn’t been like that at all. It’s been quite slow going, actually, I haven’t even done anything yet. Apart from—”

_“Slow going? You just told me there’s been seven deaths in under forty-eight hours! How is that slow going?”_

“Well, first of all, two of those deaths weren’t even our fault, and one of them was one of us, so...it’s not _really_ looking the best for us? Trott’s the only one who’s actually managed to get kills without, you know, dying himself.”

_“...How many has he—”_

“Three. Two of those were Smiffy and Ross.”

_“Woah. Okay. That’s cold. Wow, that’s cold. Is he okay? You know, like, mentally?”_

“I don’t know, he just messaged us then went radio silent. Also, that’s not important right now. I called you for a reason.”

_“Aw, you don’t wanna just chat? Alright, shoot. How may I be of assistance?”_

“What do you know about defibrillators, Ravs?”

_“...Why the fuck do you need to know that?”_

* * *

When Lalna first sees the upturned earth, he merely blinks at it. It’s early enough in the morning that his brain is still a bit fuzzy at the edges, so he doesn’t fully take in what he’s seeing and what it means.

As ten seconds go by and the sight actually registers in his mind, he blinks again—this time with wide eyes and a healthy dose of shock. He lets the disbelief and denial wash over him, but it fizzles out as he keeps staring and the scene in front of him stubbornly stays the same. When he finally comes to terms with what’s happened, he’s left not knowing if he’s panicked at the situation or just plain tired of all the bullshit that’s happening.

The graveyard has always been lackluster at best, bodies buried by amateur hands so people could at least have dignity in death. And Lalna knows he’s not the best at burying bodies, but he’s never left a mound of dirt next to a body-sized hole that’s noticeably _bodiless_. There’s only one explanation.

Somebody has stolen Bedgar’s body.

* * *

_“Why the fuck— I cannot believe—”_

“Are you gonna help me or not, Ravs?”

_“Do you know how risky that was? How easily you could’ve been caught?”_

“Well, I wasn’t caught, and now I’m here, and you’re not being very helpful!”

_“I’m sorry, I’m still trying to take in the fact that you stole a body despite the fact that you don’t know how to work a defibrillator!”_

“That’s why I called you!”

_“Man, I don’t know how to use a defib! I never did any of that medical stuff, why didn’t you call, like, Dr Simon? That guy seemed smart.”_

“First of all, he’s not that kind of doctor. Also I don’t have his number.”

_“Well, fuck, guess I better start googling some shit.”_

“Yeah. Quickly.”

* * *

It very quickly becomes obvious to Lalna that he has _no idea_ where to start his search for Bedgar. Whoever the body-snatcher is has covered their tracks well, leaving behind no traces or trails for Lalna to look into, no clues as to where they could have gone. It’s incredibly frustrating, knowing what the crime is but having no other information, and when Lalna eventually resigns to searching the whole town for the missing body, he does so with a long-suffering sigh.

“I gotta do this for the town,” he mutters to himself, trying to validate his own choice. “Gotta make sure any danger is handled. This is my job.”

He’s coming to really hate that fact.

It’s early enough in the morning that there’s hardly any activity going on, which makes his job slightly easier—he just has to investigate any activity, really, see if he can see past somebody’s act or, better yet, catch sight of the body. But as he passes empty alleyway after empty alleyway, he lets his mind drift, putting more thought into the situation.

 _What the fuck could anybody want to do with Bedgar’s body?_ The obvious answer is that they’re going to bring Bedgar back to life, but Lalna simply...can’t believe it. He knows the technology exists, that it can be done, but they’ve never had that kind of technology in their town, have they? And on top of that, he’s fairly certain there isn’t anyone in town who would know how to actually use that technology.

Is there?

* * *

_“Is he brain dead?”_

“Uh...what?”

_“Was he shot in the head or something? You know, has his brain shut down? Because if he’s brain dead, he can’t come back.”_

“...Um.”

_“Dude, how hard is it to tell me how he died? He still has wounds, doesn’t he?”_

“...”

_“Hello?”_

“He was shot in the chest. I don’t know if he bled out or his heart stopped or whatever, but...his head’s fine.”

_“Okay. That defib better work some fucking magic otherwise he’s gonna be in so much pain if you manage to bring him back.”_

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

_“Well, that’s too bad for Bedgar, isn’t it? Nothing we can do about it.”_

“Just tell me how to use this thing, Ravs.”

_“Hold on a second, I’m trying to make sense of this shitty guide...where’d you even get the defib, anyway?”_

“Remember when we found that room under Sips’ old dirt shop?”

_“Wait, really? I thought that was all just cool guns and armour and shit.”_

“Well, I did some further digging, and found a couple defibs strewn about. Never thought I’d need one, but you know...took one anyway. Then Bedgar died.”

_“And you didn’t think to look up how to use the damn thing before you stole a body?”_

“Okay, look, this was a snap decision. I hadn’t done anything yet, I felt like I had to be useful somehow. I’ll admit that I didn’t think this through.”

_“I’ll say.”_

* * *

It crosses his mind several times that he could just...tell someone. All he has to do is press a button on his comms and say a few words, and everyone who’s awake will know to look for a missing body. Every time the thought comes to mind, he comes closer and closer to doing it—and every time it gets harder to justify why he isn’t.

There are three traitors left, and all three of them can hear anything broadcast over comms; not only would the traitor with the body know they’re being searched for, but the other two may also become aware of a plan they might not have known about. As of right now, the element of surprise is the only thing Lalna has on his side—so he shouldn’t make the announcement.

That’s what he keeps telling himself, anyway.

He’s having this argument with himself for the fifth time when he runs into Spiff, who’s just left his apartment building.

“Hi, Lalna,” he greets, as he usually does—but then he pauses. “You alright? You’ve got that look on your face that you get when you’re getting annoyed at something.”

“I...I’ve been better,” Lalna admits, knowing Spiff wouldn’t buy ‘I’m fine’ unless it was the absolute truth. On instinct, he scans over the younger man, taking in as many noteworthy details as he can find: his eyes have the glaze of someone who’s only just woken up and is moving about regardless, his assault rifle is slung over his shoulder in a way that suggests he isn’t planning on using it any time soon, and his shoulders are relaxed enough to imply he has no reason to be wary of Lalna. His hands are slightly stained with what Lalna assumes is gun oil—no traces of dirt to suggest he’d been digging, but not so clean that it looks like he’d been trying to scrub evidence off himself.

With that short analysis, Lalna comes to the conclusion that Spiff is _not_ the gravedigger he’s looking for. He can’t be certain that he’s completely innocent, but...it’s a risk he’s willing to bet on. He’s getting real lonely on this search, anyway.

“Hey, Spiff, do you wanna help me with something?”

* * *

_“Did it work?”_

“What the fuck, man? I _just_ started, did you seriously think I’d have done it by now?”

_“I mean...you could have.”_

“No, I couldn’t have. Now shut up and let me follow your instructions before I forget them.”

_“...Not gonna lie, this is kinda boring.”_

“Ravs! Shut the fuck up!”

_“What do you want me to do? You might be out doing some daring lifesaving shit, but I’m just sitting in my bedroom. At least talk to me so I’m not sitting here in silence.”_

“I’m not going to do that, I’m just going to concentrate on doing this thing that gets riskier the longer I take doing it. Are you going to let me do that?”

_“Alright! Fine! Whatever, sourpuss.”_

“Thank you.”

“...”

“...”

_“...So did you do it yet?”_

“Argh—! Shit!”

_“Woah, uh...did that sound come from your end?”_

* * *

A sharp, quick _beep_ cuts through the still air, and Lalna and Spiff both freeze.

“What was that?” Lalna hisses, spinning around to face the direction that the noise came from. Years of doing the work he’s done makes this easier than it should be.

“Do you think it’s what we’re looking for?” Spiff asks, and he’s clearly struggling to follow Lalna’s example—instead, he makes a full spin, as if that’ll help him figure out where the noise came from.

“To be completely honest with you, I don’t know what we’re looking for,” Lalna admits. “But it’s as good a lead as any. Come on.”

Lalna leads Spiff through the streets, eyes darting to every alley they pass as they make their way towards where Lalna _thinks_ the sound came from. He’s not expecting to find anything nearby—it was too quiet for that—but the longer they run into nothing, the more on edge he gets.

After a minute, he hears Spiff take in a breath as if to speak, but then something else catches his attention.

“Wait, shush,” he whispers, waving a hand behind him in the hopes that it will help translate the point.

“What?” Spiff whispers back, because he’s never been one to fully obey every order he’s given. Lalna doesn’t answer, hardly noticing the question as he strains to confirm he’d heard something in the first place.

He gets what he wants almost too easily.

“Shut the fuck up and let me try this again! I’m running out of time.”

It’s muttered and quiet, a couple of alleys away from them, but Lalna catches the words and a glance at Spiff shows that he heard them as well. The sense of shock that’s fallen over them also makes clear that they’re both fully aware of who that voice belongs to.

“Stay here,” Lalna mutters, no room for argument in his voice, and Spiff nods numbly. “I’m gonna go check out the situation, see how much of a threat he is. If I don’t come back, you know what’s happened.”

“What do I do then?” Spiff asks, not wanting it to come down to him but needing to know anyway.

“I trust you to make your own calls,” Lalna says. “Do not let this end with the bodies of two innocents and the traitors unharmed.”

With that, Lalna walks off to confront Rythian, and see what exactly he’s doing with Bedgar’s body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned the whole story before Ravs started appearing frequently in TTT (which just goes to show how long ago I planned this story) so I decided to give him a cameo because I wanted to add him in without disrupting everything I'd already come up with. Just to clarify: Ravs is not part of the 'game', he moved out before it all started, but if he hadn't moved out then he would have been on the side of the traitors.
> 
> Also, at this point all the roles have been revealed (to the reader, not the town). Now it's just a game of waiting to see who does what, and who comes out alive.


	10. The Bedgar Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thrilling conclusion to the missing body situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the plans this was supposed to be a short chapter, but due to changes and additions it has now become the longest chapter in the story so far (I think). A lot happens, and again I apologise for the wait, but I hope the longer chapter makes up for it.
> 
> TW: death and violence, nothing is too detailed but all the violence is on-screen. If you've made it this far, then it's no worse than everything else that has happened.

The thing about gravel roads is that you can always hear when someone’s coming, regardless of how quiet they’re trying to be.

So when Rythian hears the footsteps slowly approaching in the distance, his mouth snaps shut immediately. Setting down the defibrillator, he pulls out his gun and flicks the safety off, aiming towards the opening of the alleyway.

_“...Hello? Why’s it gone quiet all of a sudden?”_

With a soft curse, Rythian flings a hand out and snatches his phone from where it had been lying next to Bedgar’s body, quickly taking it off speaker and shoving it to his ear.

“Someone’s coming,” he hisses, eyes trained forward as he hears the footsteps getting closer and closer. “This might be the end of our call.”

_“Wait, but you haven’t— you need to—”_

“I can deal with Bedgar as long as I’m alive, but I don’t want you to hear this.”

_“Come on, man, this isn’t—”_

“Goodbye, Ravs. Thanks for the help.”

_“Wait! Rythian—”_

With a click, Rythian cuts the call, stuffing his phone back in his pocket with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, fruitless words unheard by anyone important, before he returns his attention to the mouth of the alley and waits. The gravel footsteps are a lot closer than they were before.

At the first sign of movement, he fires, and Lalna crumples to the floor.

 _Oh shit_ , Rythian thinks to himself, freezing the moment he registers who’s in front of him. _That’s the detective. I just shot the detective._

Lalna isn’t dead, not if the way he’s coughing and spluttering is any indication, but he doesn’t seem to notice Rythian stalking over to him until his early-morning shadow has fallen over his face.

“H...How?” Lalna coughs out, pain clouding his eyes as his hands twitch at his stomach, hovering over the wound. His own gun is lying uselessly next to him, and Rythian kicks it away before lowering himself to a crouch next to him.

“I heard you,” he answers, because he feels like he owes it to his friend. Lalna’s been working so hard, being the detective and all, so he may as well give him some answers. “It was too quiet for me to not hear your footsteps, Lal.”

For a second, Lalna’s gaze slips from Rythian’s face to something behind him, and Rythian knows he’s spotted Bedgar’s body. Something in the detective deflates, as if he’s relieved at the sight. “What…?” is the quiet question that follows.

“...I wanted to help a friend,” Rythian decides on saying, before shifting his gun so it’s pointed at Lalna’s temple. “I‘m going to...to put you out of your misery now, alright? So you don’t have to bleed out.”

“Ryth,” Lalna says, one hand reaching out feebly towards him, but he doesn’t seem to know what to say after that. Rythian breathes out lowly, something akin to guilt settling in his gut.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, this time with someone to hear him, as his finger rests lightly on the trigger. “But you know I don’t have a choice.”

A long moment passes before Lalna sighs shakily and closes his eyes. Rythian takes it as his cue and pulls the trigger.

A shot rings out but Rythian pushes himself up and turns away before he can give it any more thought. Numbly, he flicks the safety back on and reholsters the gun, making his way back to Bedgar’s body and picking up the defib with shaky hands.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself, because if he thinks any more about this he might self-destruct, “Let’s make this worth it.”

* * *

All that Spiff hears is a shot, followed by silence.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t try to find out what happened, because for all he knows Lalna fired that shot and is currently dealing with the resulting situation. He is tempted, though; the silence is nerve-wracking enough as it is, but not knowing what went down only amplifies the feeling. It would be so easy to just _check_.

But Lalna said to wait for him to come back, so he’ll do just that.

It’s only when he hears that strange beep again, minutes later, that he realises something has gone terribly wrong.

He shoots off down the road without another thought, quick and nimble and as quiet as he can manage (he knows these roads, though, knows that gravel is unforgiving, so silence isn’t his top priority). He’s not entirely sure where he’s going—Lalna turned the corner and disappeared, and god knows where the beep came from—but he lets his instincts drive him, pushing on down the road with a sharp gaze that flickers to every alley he passes.

It’s after he turns a second corner that he sees it: Lalna’s feet, poking out the end of an alleyway, unmoving. The sight causes him to freeze—somehow, despite everything going on, this is the first time Spiff has actually seen the dead body of one of his friends. He’d heard about everything, sure, watched the body count rise uncomfortably quickly, but somehow he’d managed to avoid every crime scene until this moment.

He knows his hands are shaking as he readies his assault rifle, but he tries not to linger on it.

 _“Do not let this end with the bodies of two innocents and the traitors unharmed,”_ is what Lalna had said. Now, creeping towards the mouth of the alley, Spiff knows he has a promise to keep.

He’s close enough now that he can hear more of what’s happening around the corner—there’s a shaky gasp and a whimper, followed by another gasp from someone else. Something clatters to the floor, clearly dropped, and hushed whispers follow—Spiff thinks he catches the word ‘alive’—before suddenly there are footsteps. Someone is walking towards Lalna’s body, towards where Spiff is hiding, and, well.

It’s instinct, really, that carries Spiff around the corner and causes him to shoot. He misses at first, probably because he had no idea what he was supposed to be shooting at, but then his eyes lock onto Rythian (who looks shocked, somehow, his gun held uselessly in his hands) and it’s all over from there.

“What—” is all Rythian gets out before he’s hit, once in the leg and once in the chest before he falls, and Spiff is stalking over him.

“I always had a feeling it might be you,” Spiff says, which is complete _bullshit_ but it feels powerful to say, and it’s not like Rythian can prove him wrong.

“I call bullshit,” Rythian spits out, because of course he sees right through him.

“It doesn’t matter, though, now does it?”

“What do you— what do you want, Spiff?”

“I’m just following a dead man’s orders.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Finish the job, then.”

Spiff stares for a moment, locked under Rythian’s defeated yet challenging gaze, before he raises his rifle and fires one last time. For some reason, he doesn’t look away, even as Rythian’s eyes go cold and lifeless—he doesn’t move at all, actually. It’s almost as if the whole world stopped for him, too.

The sound of shuffling behind him brings Spiff back to reality, and suddenly he realises that he’d forgotten a very vital detail about what he’d heard before. After all, there had been two gasps from two different people, and Spiff had locked onto Rythian without taking note of the rest of the alleyway.

Spinning around, all Spiff sees is a flash of blue before something comes down heavy on his head, and the world goes dark.

* * *

Bedgar stares at Spiff’s unconscious body for a moment, lost in thought.

Everything hurts. _Goddamnit_ , everything hurts. His head is pounding, his limbs feel like they’re being dragged through molasses and his chest in particular burns and throbs to an almost paralysing extent. But he’s _alive._ He doesn’t know how Rythian did it, but his heart is beating and blood is pumping around his body and _he’s alive_. That’s more than he could possibly ask for.

It feels like a sick trade, though, looking at the bodies and blood around him.

He lets the crowbar he’s holding slip from his hand and it clatters to the ground in a way that sounds muted to his ears, which is probably due to the fact that his body is literally trying to figure out how to function after however long it had been dormant. He could have used the crowbar to finish the job, to smash Spiff’s head in until he’s certain the man will never wake up again, but whatever strength he’d found to knock Spiff out has been completely drained from him. He also doesn’t think he’d be able to take the mess—the blood around him is already making him feel sick enough. He’s not entirely sure what happened, but what he does know is that there are three bodies at his feet (two dead and one unconscious) and he could have prevented one of those if he'd just acted faster.

Bedgar’s eyes dart to Rythian’s body (his saviour, his friend—with a start, he realises he’ll never be able to repay the favour, not truly) and latch onto the gun still resting on his palm. He picks it up, checks the chamber (three bullets), then turns back to Spiff.

A bullet to the head is a quick and relatively painless death. Spiff isn’t even aware of it when it happens. Something in Bedgar is jealous at the thought, the idea of going so quick that you don’t have time to realise you’re dying, but none of it matters because it’s done. Spiff is dead, Bedgar is alive.

Lalna’s also dead, but so is Rythian. Bedgar hopes the trade is worth it. Two innocents and a traitor, for the life of a traitor.

It doesn’t really sound worth it; instead, it just sounds like a whole lot of blood.

“You should have given me a gun, Rythian,” Bedgar mutters, wanting to be angry but in too much pain for it to really come to fruition. “I could have helped you. Can’t do much with a crowbar from a distance.”

With a final glance at the bodies, Bedgar turns his back to all the death and runs.

* * *

Xephos forces himself to not react when he sees Zylus across the street. Yesterday’s meeting hangs heavy in the air (and the fight really had only been a day ago, somehow), a bitter memory of adrenaline and anger that he doesn’t want to repeat. He’s too tired, too weary from an event that’s only been happening for the past two days, and somehow he thinks Zylus doesn’t want to fight either.

He notices Zylus tense, actually, the moment their eyes meet—he’s waiting for Xephos to shout, to heckle him, or whatever else. Instead, Xephos settles with glaring at him as they approach each other, ripping his gaze away when there’s only ten steps between them. They don’t even pass each other; Zylus turns left and makes off down the road, and Xephos resolutely stares forward as he continues straight. Past fights, knee-jerk hatred, none of that matters—the moment’s over.

He makes it all of twenty paces before Zylus yells.

“WHAT THE _FUCK_?!”

Xephos starts running back before he realises it, the instinct to know what’s happened (and, hidden more deeply, to help) taking over his want to avoid Zylus and all the feelings that come with the man. Dread is already settling into his chest—because Zylus couldn’t have done anything in that time, so something has happened to someone else, and that something is definitely _bad_ —but even that isn’t enough to prepare him for what he sees when he skids to a stop in front of an alleyway.

The shock stops any reaction he could have had as he stares at the bodies in front of him.

“We have a situation,” Zylus says into the comms, clearly as shaken as Xephos. “There’s been three casualties: Rythian, Spiff and Lalna. I repeat, Rythian, Spiff and Lalna are...dead.” At that, Zylus lets out an unsteady breath, glancing at Xephos as he continues. “I just found them, Xeph is with me, we don’t know what happened.”

“Lalna was the only one who knew how to identify traitors,” Xephos mutters, hoping the mic picks up his voice. He can’t find the strength to raise his volume, still staring at the bodies. “We don’t...we can’t check these guys. Because he’s gone.”

There’s silence over the line for a moment, as everything starts slowly sinking in, before Angor’s voice comes through.

 _“Bouphe and I were with Lalna when he found out what to look for,”_ he announces. _“I could go over there and check it out, I know what the mark is.”_

“I’ll send you my location,” Zylus says, sure and quick, as if he was certain he could trust Angor, and the thought rubbed at Xephos in a way he didn’t quite want to think about.

_“Alright.”_

_“Do you want me there too?”_ Bouphe speaks up. _“Because I can vouch for Angor from here, but if I’m the only other one who knows what the mark is...”_

“I doubt you guys would lie about the marks,” Zylus tells her, when Xephos doesn’t move to answer.

 _“You can go if you want, though, Bouphe,”_ Angor adds on.

_“And if I don’t want to?”_

_“Nobody’s going to force you to see a crime scene you don’t have to see.”_

_“Okay. I’ll just stay here then.”_

The line goes quiet again, but Xephos hardly registers it as everything in front of him finally clicks in his mind. One of those bodies is that of one of his oldest friends, the person he had been closest to outside of Honeydew, who had moved out ages ago. He wants to scream.

He does.

It’s more of a cry than anything, an angry sob that claws out of his throat and rips through the open air, but the emotion it carries sends him to his knees. Zylus doesn’t say anything as it happens, doesn’t judge him, and Xephos hates himself all the more for it. If the roles were reversed, he probably would have said something.

Zylus is a much better person than he is.

He doesn’t know how long he spends on the ground before Angor arrives, resting a hand on his shoulder as he passes and nodding silently to Zylus before getting to work. He goes to Rythian first, looking over him in a way similar to how Lalna had searched Pedguin and Wilsonator, but unlike with those two, Angor actually finds something.

“Here. Look at this,” he says, gesturing the two of them over, and Xephos pushes himself up from the floor to move over with Zylus. Marked on Rythian’s ankle, hidden by the sock Angor had pushed down, is a tattoo of a red gun that Xephos has never seen before. “This is the traitor mark. It’s in the same place Lalna found it on Bedgar, so I assume it’ll be in the same place on the others.”

_Rythian was a traitor. That...stings more than he expected it to._

“It might not be, though,” Zylus points out, staring at the mark with a hint of fear in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Angor agrees. “That’s why you gotta search everywhere.”

He shuffles over to Spiff then, checking both ankles before moving on to the rest of his body, and Xephos feels the dread bubble in his gut with every second the search continues. Zylus stands to the side, watching—he seems so calm now that Angor’s here, so trusting of the other man, and while part of Xephos thinks he should be wary of this, instead he finds himself somewhat jealous. The last time he’d trusted someone like that was years ago, and it’s a feeling he longs for, something he hadn’t realised he missed until that moment.

The people he has the best chances to get that trust with are dead or have been driven away by his own childish hatred. The thought makes him want to vomit.

This time, he doesn’t.

“Spiff doesn’t have it,” Angor states, and the sentence feels like a stab in the gut even though Xephos had seen the knife coming from a mile away and could have done anything to prepare himself for it. Angor moves over to Lalna, even though he doesn’t really need to, and this time the search is quicker because all three of them know that nothing will be there. “Lalna’s clear too.”

“Okay,” Zylus says. “Can I leave you to announce that while we start cleanup?”

“Sure—” Angor’s starts, but then Xephos interrupts him.

“I’ll do cleanup. You two go back to your lives.”

“Uh…” Angor looks over him, concern clear on his face, and Zylus casts a slightly suspicious look at him, which...fair. “You sure? You’ll be alright?”

God, he hates himself for suggesting it. He hates everything about this situation. Hates that any animosity he used to have towards Zylus (animosity that, once upon a time, would have led to him forcing all the work on the Dutchman) seems to have disappeared from his veins.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, clipped and short, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t look at Zylus as he passes to leave the alleyway.

He’s not fine, but...well. When has he ever been?


	11. The Past Follows Angor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angor runs into someone he never expected to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again it's been a month and I am sorry, especially since this chapter is short and I have no excuse. All that happened was I finished another thing then essentially took a break from writing, and I'm starting sixth form tomorrow so I can't be sure when the next chapter will be written. Hopefully soon...
> 
> TW: death, gun violence, explosions and a very brief mention of vomiting that doesn't go into any detail.

_‘Can we meet up by Wilsonator’s shop? I need to talk to you about something._

_Bring Lydia.’_

* * *

Angor doesn’t get very far before he turns a corner and his eyes lock onto a familiar blue figure.

At first, a mixture of happiness and hope floods through him, piercing through the dull haze he’d been surrounded by for the past couple of days. After all, why should he be upset when the reason for his mood is alive and standing in front of him?

“Bedgar…” he breathes out, disbelief and hope and pure _feeling_ taking over him and rooting him to the spot. Bedgar seems frozen too, staring at Angor with wide eyes, although _he_ doesn’t seem that happy. If anything, he almost looks scared, but a shaky and pained smile forces its way onto his lips.

“Hey, Angor,” Bedgar says, timid and weak, the hand holding his pistol tensing somewhat at his side. Angor waits for him to continue, expecting the usual quip or question that comes with Bedgar’s greetings, but nothing follows.

“You’re here,” Angor says after the silence lingers for too long, because his mind is still too shocked to do anything but state the obvious, and in his near delirium he steps forward in an unconscious attempt to get closer.

The moment he registers the movement, Bedgar jerks backward.

“What…” Angor starts, and suddenly the wall of hope surrounding him is being chipped away as reality begins to sink in. “How…”

The realisation is abrupt: he’s staring at a dead man.

“Angor, I…” Bedgar tries, as if he’s fully aware of the situation and doesn’t have any idea what to do about it. “Look—”

“Why aren’t you dead?” Angor asks, and Bedgar visibly flinches at the question. “You were...you should be…”

“I know, I know, but—”

“You can’t be alive!” Panic drives him to pull his gun from its holster, but every ingrained instinct in him keeps Angor from actually pointing the pistol directly at Bedgar, instead leaving his aim hovering unsteadily to the right of him. At the sight of the gun, Bedgar’s own pistol comes up, but Angor can’t tell if Bedgar is actually aiming at him—maybe they’re in the same boat.

Bedgar also stumbles backwards more, his back bumping into an explosive barrel that Angor hadn’t noticed.

They’re stuck in this shaky standoff for a couple of seconds before Angor whispers, “You betrayed us.”

“I know,” Bedgar answers immediately.

“You...you weren’t supposed to come back.”

“I know.” It feels like he already knows everything Angor is saying.

“You can’t...stay.”

“Angor…” Bedgar starts, looking like he wants to protest even though he knows he can’t. The arm holding his gun drops slightly.

“Bedgar,” Angor says back at him, because what else is he supposed to say?

For a second Bedgar hesitates, fighting himself in his head, before he mutters: “I’m sorry.”

Then he’s lifting his gun again, and before Angor can say anything, he fires.

There’s a long moment of stillness straight after the shot, both parties waiting for something to happen. Angor braces himself for the pain, expecting it to bloom in his stomach or chest or just _anywhere_.

Nothing happens.

Bedgar missed.

“No,” Bedgar murmurs the moment he realises. “No, no, no!”

He steadies his gun to try again, but Angor is quicker on the draw; his gun jerks to aim at the barrel at Bedgar’s back, because he still doesn’t think he could actually aim at Bedgar himself, and he pulls the trigger. Bedgar flinches at the sound of the shot and accidentally fires his second bullet, which buries itself in a wall to Angor’s right, but it doesn’t matter. Angor’s aim had been perfect, and the oil was already lit.

“I’m sorry,” Angor says, repeating Bedgar’s own words, just as Bedgar notices the flaming barrel. He sees his friend’s shoulders slump in shocked defeat, and a second later the barrel explodes.

Bedgar is unconscious and burned when he hits the ground. Angor stumbles back around the corner so he doesn’t have to look at it and isn’t quite able to keep himself from throwing up.

* * *

He doesn’t know how long he sits there before the sound of someone running towards him catches his attention. When he looks up, he sees Zylus desperately making his way to him. Somehow, he isn’t surprised to see that Xephos isn’t far behind.

“Are you okay?” Zylus asks the moment he’s close enough, quickly kneeling down beside Angor and reaching out to him. Angor lets him check him over, too numb to protest. “We heard an explosion nearby, and I thought...Jesus _Christ_ , Angor—”

“I’m not hurt,” he mutters, sounding weak to his own ears. Zylus finishes checking him for injuries and decides to believe him, sitting back on his haunches to give Angor some space.

“What happened?” he asks, serious and concerned, and behind him Xephos walks up to the two of them.

“I saw…” he starts, but he chokes on the words. Tears start building up in his eyes (briefly he wonders how he hadn’t actually cried until now) and instead of trying to answer with words, he gestures weakly around the corner.

Zylus and Xephos both lean around the corner to see what he’s getting at, and Angor can easily see when they spot the body. Zylus is clearly shocked, frozen in place not unlike how Angor had been before, except instead of any hint of hope there’s only dread and confusion. Xephos, on the other hand, just looks grim.

“How?” Zylus asks, astonished, which is a question Angor can’t answer. “He— he died, he...Lalna buried him, how is he…”

“There was a defibrillator in the alley where we found the others,” Xephos states, quiet and subdued. “It had clearly been used. Rythian must have figured out how to use it, and he...brought Bedgar back to life.”

“I didn’t even know you could do that,” Zylus whispers.

“Doesn’t matter much,” Xephos says, still staring at where Bedgar is lying around the corner. “From the state of him, he’s...definitely dead.”

And sure, logically Angor already knew that. But actually hearing someone say it aloud is like having an icy knife twist in his chest, and a coarse sob rips itself out of him before he can stop it. Zylus’ head whips around at the sound, a look of realisation dawning on him.

“Oh shit, Angor, you had to…” He launches himself forward at the sound of the next sob, wrapping his arms tight around Angor and letting him cry brokenly into his shoulder.

They stay like that for a couple of minutes, Zylus letting Angor cry himself dry with Xephos watching over them. Even as the sobs start to subside, Zylus doesn’t let go—if anything, he holds on tighter.

“We stay together from now on, okay?” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “No more being alone, it’s not good for us.”

“...Okay,” Angor says, because he knows he’s been alone since the first time Bedgar died, and he’s just coming to realise how lonely he had really been.

The soft sound of shuffling draws his attention and he looks up to see Xephos slowly backing away from them, as if he doesn’t know if he should be there or not. Zylus notices this too.

“You too, Xeph,” he calls out, causing the other man to freeze. “We all stay together.”

“...Are you sure?” Xephos asks, and if it were anyone else then Angor would be sure he was asking if this was a good idea. As it stands, his question means something completely different.

“Believe it or not, I don’t want you dead,” Zylus says determinedly, and Xephos sighs.

“Alright. We stick together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just three sad boys sticking together.


	12. An Unwanted Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross goes searching for something he shouldn't pursue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...as seen by how long it's been since the last update, sixth form is fully kicking my ass. Plus some shit went down in early October so I've been kinda distracted, but I finished the chapter! And some good news: once I get the next chapter done, all of the story will be written! I just need to edit some stuff, but after the next chapter comes out, there will be no more long waits. Thanks for sticking with me though :P
> 
> Here's a Halloween gift for making you wait so long!
> 
> TW: gun violence, guilt and panic, someone gets shot (please let me know if I need to warn against anything else because I'm not actually sure with this one...)

“Are you sure about this?”

“I mean...we may as well, right? Our other option is to just...ignore her.”

“Maybe that’s a smart move, though. Could be a trap.”

“Or it could be a chance to get some information! We won’t know unless we go.”

“I guess…”

“...Look, I won’t force you to come. But I want to know what this is about, and I can handle myself, so I’m going.”

“Well I’m not letting you go alone.”

“That settles that then! Now take this.”

“I— what? No! You need this!”

“So do you! You gave yours away, I want you to have mine.”

“He needed it, you heard what he was planning on doing.”

“And he tried to resist but you insisted. Now I’m insisting you take mine. Please...I don’t want you going into this without protection.”

“I don’t want _you_ going into this without protection!”

“I know how to take care of myself. I have more experience with this than you do. Please, for my sake, take the vest.”

“...Okay. I’ll wear it.”

* * *

It’s about midday when Ross finds Trott again.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know why he didn’t just cut his losses and stay low, or why he decided that looking for his old friend and murderer would be a good idea. The moment his eyes glimpse that stupid tiger hood his stomach churns, and if he was a sane man then maybe he would have taken the clue and let dead matters die.

As it stands, he’s already died twice, so Ross isn’t entirely sure he can be called a sane man anymore.

That fact is probably what brings him to step around the corner and raise his gun at Trott’s back.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to—he sees the way Trott tenses, no doubt having heard Ross’ footsteps behind him, and Ross decides to wait and see what Trott will do. For a moment they’re suspended in silence, then Trott chuckles lowly and turns around.

“Well, what do we have...here…” The predatory grin on Trott’s face falls the moment he registers the person standing in front of him, giving way to shock and something almost resembling fear. Ross stays silent, hoping his glare is as hardened as he wants it to be and not giving away his own inner turmoil.

There’s a beat, and then: “You should be dead.” It’s hissed and angry, but Trott hasn’t pulled out his own gun yet, unlike what Ross had expected him to do.

“It didn’t take,” he mutters, not wavering despite his uncertainty on what he’s actually trying to do here. _Is he trying to stop Trott, or is he just looking to get himself killed off for real?_

_Could he actually shoot Trott if it came down to it?_

“I shot you in the head,” Trott says, still frozen in place, his eyes never leaving Ross’ face despite the gun pointed at his chest. “How the fuck are you alive?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ross replies, because he’s not about to say ‘magic’ and expect that to help him at all. Right now, the truth can fuck off.

Trott takes that for the threat it sounds like and finally pulls out his shotgun.

“I shot both of you in the head,” he growls. “It was supposed to be quick and painless, so you didn’t suffer, and then I’d never have to think about it again.”

“Is that all we meant to you? You were just gonna stop thinking about us?”

“SHUT UP!” Trott roars, shuffling almost subconsciously away from Ross. “You weren’t supposed to come back! All I needed to do was take you out and then I could just _forget_ —”

“But you couldn’t, could you?” Ross interrupts him, and Trott snaps his mouth shut as if he’s been zapped. “You couldn’t forget about me and Smiffy, no matter how hard you tried. You can’t just kill your friends and pretend everything is fine.”

The silence that drags on is tense, almost painful, as Trott stares Ross down with hatred burning in his eyes. Ross stands his ground.

“...You’re just a figment of my imagination, aren’t you?” Trott eventually whispers. “You’re just my subconscious trying to haunt me, you aren’t actually alive.”

“If that’s what you want to believe, then sure,” Ross says, because again, it’s not like he can tell the truth. Whatever conclusion Trott comes to, all he can really do is agree. “But I am here to stop you.”

“You can’t!” Trott exclaims. The look in his eyes is hysterical in a way Ross hasn’t seen from him before. “You’re not real! You can’t hurt me!”

Ross knows, at this point, that he should just pull the trigger. If he catches Trott off-guard and shoots him before he can react, then that would be the end of it; he would be left to move on with whatever sorrowful life he has in front of him.

But his finger isn’t even on the trigger—it never had been—and for some reason, he can’t bring himself to move it.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t really have a choice,” Ross says, and he’s fully aware that he’s rambling now, trying to delay the inevitable end of this standoff. “You...you’re a bad person, Trott.”

“Shut up! Stop talking, leave me alone!”

“You lied to me and Smiffy, you lied a lot, I don’t...I don’t even know if I know who you are anymore.”

“I said LEAVE ME ALONE!” Trott screams, delirious with panic and guilt and whatever else he’s overwhelmed with, and before Ross can react, he fires.

Ross crumples to the floor from the force of it, but even with his chest throbbing in white hot pain, only one thought comes to mind. _I’m so glad Lydia forced me to take her bulletproof vest._

Trott, on the other hand, has frozen in place, apparently shocked that Ross had gone down with the shot—he’d been convinced Ross wasn’t real, after all. He’d also seemed so upset when confronted with the fact that he’d shot his best friends, so to know he just shot one of them again?

Ross doesn’t exactly blame him for not knowing how to react. He also doesn’t have the energy to do anything besides think about the pain still blooming over his chest.

It takes him a moment to realise how lifeless he looks, with the way he’s not moving from the ground.

“Stay down,” Trott says, his voice shaky and almost a whisper. Something metal clatters to the floor—his shotgun, presumably. “Just— just stay down, don’t get up, don’t come back, _please_. Please just stay dead.” He must be really out of it, since he hasn’t noticed that there’s no blood pooling around Ross’ body like last time, or that Ross is still taking in pained breaths. “Just stay dead…”

With that, he runs, his footsteps loud in Ross’ mind as he flees the scene and once again leaves behind the body of his friend. When the pain eases enough for Ross to think again, he blinks his eyes open, his gaze settling on the abandoned shotgun that has now been fired at him twice.

Once he has enough energy to move, Ross slowly pulls himself into a sitting position against a nearby wall, trying to remember where in town he is so he can figure out his next move (he is...somewhere near the town hall, maybe?).

One thing’s for certain, though: he’s not going after Trott again. Not after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man...I've really torn Hat Films apart, haven't I? Whoops.


	13. Zoeya Has Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bouphe and Lydia go to a meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been another two months, and I can only apologise.
> 
> Thing is, I didn't like the original plan for this chapter, for reasons I'm not going to go into. But being so late into the story, there wasn't much I could do to fix it, so I kinda grew discouraged with how I wanted to go about writing this. Plus I also just...got distracted by school. I hope this chapter is still okay, though!
> 
> TW: death, explosions, mentioned kidnapping

As Bouphe and Lydia approach Zoeya, Lydia notices three things.

One, Zoeya is alone. This isn’t that surprising, given the news Lydia’s heard every other hour of another life gone. At this point, she doesn’t know who Zoeya could have actually brought with her (which brings up another point—how long has Zoeya been on her own?).

Two, she’s unarmed. This is surprising purely for the fact that Lydia doesn’t know why she’d be unarmed during a time like this. _Especially_ this late into the game.

Three, she looks exhausted. This is the most surprising, Lydia thinks. There’s an ugly scar running up her cheek and she’s hunched in on herself, her eyes watching the approaching pair with none of the alertness that’s usually there. It’s...almost _disturbing_ , how tired she looks.

Lydia isn’t sure how much of this Bouphe also notices, but the shorter woman doesn’t seem to let it faze her, striding up to Zoeya with purpose.

“You wanted to talk to us?” Bouphe says as a greeting, all business-like and straight to the point, and Lydia takes a second to admire her best friend’s confidence.

Zoeya nods before gesturing to the shop behind her. “Let’s talk inside.” Her voice is missing the chipper cadence it usually holds, but there’s not much Lydia can really do about that. Maybe she should stop making these observations.

The three of them enter the now abandoned shop, not going very far as Zoeya hovers by the counter and Bouphe subtly pushes Lydia so she’s standing in front of the door. It’s a position that means Lydia can leave easily if she needs to (the door swings both ways so if she crashed into it she would end up on the street) and for a moment she wants to argue that Bouphe is the one currently not wearing a protective vest and should therefore have the quicker escape route. Luckily for Bouphe, Lydia’s not about to start that argument again when Zoeya is standing right in front of them (and she’s not even armed, so is the vest even necessary?).

“So what did you want to talk about?” Bouphe asks, open and inviting as Zoeya jumps up to sit on the counter.

“...I wanted to apologise,” Zoeya says, causing the other two to tense up. “And I know that sounds bad! I know! There’s nothing...good about this, actually, but please just hear me out. I don’t have any weapons on me, I promise, I just...I needed to tell someone.”

She pauses to let that sink in, but when it becomes clear the two of them are just going to stare at her and not do anything, she sighs and kicks off one of her shoes. Then she brings her leg up and rolls down her sock, revealing a red gun tattooed on her ankle that Bouphe gasps at.

“So you do know what this is,” Zoeya observes, her gaze flickering to Lydia who...doesn’t recognise the tattoo, but has a good guess as to what it means. Zoeya explains anyway. “It’s a mark to say we stand against the actions of the town. It was Bedgar’s idea, and everyone agreed, so...yeah. Did you know Rythian used to work in a tattoo parlour?” She chuckles sadly. “Ravs got one before he moved towns. And...Saberial had one too.”

“Oh,” Lydia lets out involuntarily at the mention of Zoeya’s partner.

“Yeah. We were so excited when we first got them, like, this was something that solidified us as a group! And...now it marks me as an enemy.” Zoeya sighs. “I heard that conversation over comms, you know, Bouphe. When you and Angor said you knew what the ‘traitor mark’ was. I...I wanted to not believe it, but...I didn’t know what else you could be talking about.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Bouphe asks, awed by the confession. Her hands have stayed solidly at her sides for the whole conversation, not once straying towards the gun she has holstered—Lydia notices that she’s done the same, and that the thought of pulling a gun on Zoeya makes her feel uneasy even though she just admitted she’s one of the traitors.

She doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Because somebody needed to know,” Zoeya replies, no longer meeting their gaze. “And I wanted to apologise. I didn’t- I didn’t want _this_.” She gestures vaguely with her arm towards the door, and the town beyond it. “When we first joined...we had no idea what would happen. Someone just decided that they didn’t like what the town has been doing and convinced other people to join them. Rythian roped me and Saberial into it. And it was good for a while! I truly believed I was on the good side because...well, the other side was made of terrorists. ‘Cause that’s what you are, if you didn’t realise.”

Bouphe huffs at the callout and crosses her arms defensively; Lydia, on the other hand, doesn’t react. She doesn’t really want to think about it, because instinctively she knows that Zoeya is right. Now isn’t really the time to get into that, though.

“And we were gonna do things peacefully, right? Like, just sabotage missions and stay low, all that jazz. But then Ravs moved and...I dunno. Something changed. Trott kept pushing for us to be more reckless and nobody could find any good reason to argue with him. I...you know Saberial and I were planning to move too?” Zoeya chuckles at the surprised looks that Bouphe and Lydia give her. “Yeah, we were gonna...like a week from now, we were gonna skip town. But then they...they...”

“Saberial got taken,” Lydia whispers, because she remembers the day. A mission out of town gone wrong—Saberial had screamed through comms and when the group made their way to their sniper spot, they were nowhere to be seen. She remembers trying to console a sobbing Zoeya for the rest of the night, refusing to believe the worst.

That happened less than a week ago.

Zoeya sniffs, and with a start Lydia realises that she’s tearing up. “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run, but...the next day, Trott demanded that we go violent. Something about not wanting to lose any more of us. Well, jokes on him! Now we’ve lost everybody…” Her breath hitches for a moment before, without warning, she pushes herself to her feet and starts shouting. “And it’s all his fault! I didn’t want to be violent and Rythian was uncertain and I don’t know what Bedgar wanted but Trott took control! He killed Daltos and left the note and then Lalna made the announcement and I was trapped! I couldn’t leave because then Trott would come after me too!”

“Zoeya…” Bouphe says, taking a couple of steps towards her, but Zoeya backs away, tears falling freely down her face as she stumbles into the counter.

“I tried to kill Pedguin,” she admits, voice small and bordering on hysterical. “With- with the bat. To try and stay on Trott’s good side, I dunno. But he got me—” She gestures to the large scar on her cheek, “—And I just...I couldn’t do it. When he ran I took off in the opposite direction and I’ve been hiding on my own ever since.” Zoeya’s voice cracks, and she wipes at her eyes fruitlessly as tears keep spilling. She’s not even looking at them anymore. “And it- it’s pathetic, isn’t it? All I’ve managed to do is hit someone with a bat then run away, and then rig a bomb to explode in...I don’t even know when—”

“You _what?!”_ Bouphe screeches, and suddenly Lydia hears it. A very quiet steady beeping playing in the background of their conversation.

“I’m sorry!” Zoeya cries, not moving from her spot pressed against the counter. The beeping grows quicker. “I didn’t know what to do! I’ve got nothing left— I wasn’t thinking! I’M SORRY!”

It takes Lydia a second to register what happens next. There’s a force on her chest that pushes her backwards, stumbling into the door that swings open under her weight. For a moment she sees Bouphe’s determined expression and Zoeya watching them helplessly, before there’s a blast of heat that sends her flying out the door and onto the ground.

* * *

When Zylus, Angor and Xephos get to the site of the explosion, they’re met with Lydia screaming at the rubble.

“BOUPHE! ZOEYA! PLEASE! ANSWER ME!” Her voice is laced with sobs, cracking under her grief. “Please…”

“Lydia!” Xephos exclaims, rushing to her side and kneeling down beside her. He places a hand on her shoulder and she collapses into him, sobbing and yelling incoherently.

Zylus and Angor remain standing, staring at the rubble.

“...This was Wilsonator’s shop,” Angor mumbles numbly. “What happened here...?”

“I think we know,” Zylus says. “We all heard it.” He makes his way over to the pair on the ground, leaving Angor where he’s stood. “Lydia...?”

“It’s not fair!” she cries, her hands latched desperately onto Xephos’ jumper. “Bouphe should’ve had the vest, she shouldn’t have— and Zoeya, she was sorry, we could have—”

“Lydia, I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me? In and out, like I am, yeah?” Zylus slows his breathing down for Lydia to copy, noticing distantly that Xephos has done the same. Once Lydia has calmed down somewhat and Angor has made his way over, Zylus speaks up again. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“...Zoeya was a traitor,” Lydia whispers, and all three men around her freeze. “She called us over here saying she wanted to talk to me and Bouphe. And- and she admitted it, she said she never wanted all the violence and explained why she did it.” She pauses to wipe at her eyes. “But then she said there was a bomb, and she didn’t know when it was gonna explode, and- and Bouphe pushed me out of the way so I wasn’t in the building when it collapsed...” Her breath hitches again and Xephos hugs her tighter, rocking slightly and keeping his breathing pattern slow for her to follow.

“Do you think they could still be alive in there?” Zylus asks nobody in particular, eyeing the rubble.

“I haven’t heard anything or seen any movement,” Angor replies. “They could be unconscious, but...I don’t really wanna look.”

“They were next to it...” Lydia mumbles. “When it went off. And the building came down so quickly, they...they were crushed. I don’t think...”

She sniffs, and Xephos shushes her. “You don’t have to keep talking about it if you don’t want to.”

“Wait...” Angor starts, and everyone turns to him. “How many traitors did the letter say there were?”

“Four, I think,” Zylus replies, the message ingrained in his mind. “ _Until only the four of us remain._ ”

“And if we found Rythian, Bedgar, and now Zoeya...”

“Then there’s only one left,” Xephos finishes, slightly in awe of the realisation.

“It’s Trott,” Lydia and Zylus say at the same time.

“Wh- how do you know?”

“He attacked Ross and Smiffy,” Lydia explains. “I found Ross alive afterwards. He actually went out to find Trott again this morning, but I haven’t seen him since...”

“I think I saw Trott earlier,” Xephos says. “Like half an hour ago? But I didn’t...see Ross.”

“Goddammit...”

“Let’s not think about that,” Angor says, before looking at Zylus curiously. “How do _you_ know?”

“I doubt it’s any of us, and he was the only person left that I can think of,” Zylus lies quickly, absentmindedly fiddling with the bracelet he had forgotten to cover.

“Zoeya told us as well,” Lydia continues, before anyone thinks to question him. “He forced them to go violent, he...he started all of this.”

“He sounds dangerous,” Xephos says, and Zylus thinks he couldn’t be more accurate. “Do you think we can take him?”

There’s silence for a moment, the four of them contemplating the question. Zylus belatedly realises he doesn’t really want to face Trott. Not when he knows what will happen.

He can’t say that, though.

“...I think we have to,” Angor says finally, and Zylus nods along with the others in agreement.


	14. Zylus' Final Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They confront Trott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't wait a week so here's the next chapter! Most of this has been written for over a year, with a couple of edits for continuity's sake, so if the style is slightly different that's why (and apologies if anything doesn't quite flow properly). But this is the chapter that inspired me to write the rest of the story, so enjoy! (As much as you can, anyway.)
> 
> TW: death, guns, suicide

They find Trott down the street from the town hall. He seems to be wandering aimlessly, an upset air about him, and upon further inspection he doesn’t even seem to have a gun on him. It looks...easy. _Way too easy_ , given what they know.

They all pull out their guns, except for Zylus, who only has the sniper rifle strapped to his back. Trott freezes as they approach, having heard their movement in the otherwise silent town.

When they’re only a couple steps away, he spins around, any dejectedness gone from his demeanour and instead replaced with an aura of overconfidence. Zylus tenses, but doesn’t comment on it. The metal weighs heavy on his wrist.

“We know you’re the last one,” he says instead, bracing himself as he faces the one person he’s known the identity of the entire time.

Trott grins, a knowing glint in his eye. “Of course you do.”

Then he grabs onto Zylus’ wrist, the one with the bracelet, and yanks him towards him. He turns his grin on the others, who stand shocked at the move. “You’re not gonna shoot me. Wouldn’t wanna hurt a _friend_ , would you?”

“You can’t take him hostage, we’re at close range!” Xephos makes a point of shifting his shotgun, lining up a shot at Trott’s head that would easily miss Zylus. His words are confident, but Zylus hears it in his voice—he’s on edge, apprehensive about Trott seeming completely unfazed. “It’s three on one, a hostage would mean nothing to you right now, you- you just _can’t_.”

“But I already have, Xephos.” Trott waves his hand, the one holding Zylus’ wrist, and the matching metal bracelets glint in the scorching sun. Angor notices, his gun lowering ever so slightly.

“Zylus…” The name is muttered, half as a question and half as an expression of disbelief, and Zylus growls.

“Don’t shoot.” He wishes he could let them simply blow Trott’s brains out then and there, but part of him needs the others to know that when he dies, it wasn’t them who killed him. He needs them to know that he was confirmed dead the moment Trott snapped that bracelet to his wrist. “Don’t…”

Xephos and Lydia keep their guns trained on Trott—and Zylus can’t blame them for that—but Angor lowers his gun completely. He trusts Zylus, has ever since they made that pact, and he knows there’s an explanation for whatever’s going on here; it’s the thought of what that explanation is that he dreads.

“That’s right, Zylus,” Trott murmurs, and it's praise that makes him feel sick. “Why don’t you tell them what’s going on here?”

The battle between wanting his friends to understand and wanting to deck Trott in the face continues to play out in his mind, and he looks away in shame instead of trying to offer any kind of insight. When Trott sees this, he chuckles.

“Cat got your tongue, huh? Well, let me paint the picture for you.” He turns to the others, cocky and so fucking _proud_ of himself that it makes Zylus want to gag. Xephos and Lydia are getting more defensive by the second, and Angor is fidgeting with his gun. “See these two bracelets? Funny, right? Ever notice that we were wearing these?”

“Zylus always wore sweatbands on his wrists,” Xephos states. “Made him look suspicious as shit, but I never noticed the bracelet.”

“Fuck off, Xeph.” Zylus tugs his arm out of Trott’s grip, although it doesn’t take much to do so.

“Well fun fact,” Trott continues, unbothered. “There’s poison sitting in both of these, and it can kill a man in five seconds. The moment my heart stops beating, this poison will be injected into Zylus’ bloodstream, and vice versa. Isn’t that right, sunshine?”

Zylus doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at Trott as his hand loosely holds the offending bracelet. His eyes are glazed over by an odd mix of anger and defeat as he searches the faces of those left around him, spotting what he doesn’t want to see in everyone’s expressions: reluctance. Now that they know his life is linked to Trott’s, nobody will dare to take the shot against the traitor, just so his own life is preserved.

He’s not going to take that.

“And now I guess we’re at a stalemate.”

Trott obviously knows all too well what this little ‘tactic’ of his has gotten him, also recognising the hesitation in Xephos and Angor and Lydia’s eyes, and Zylus wants to curse himself for not seeing this before.

“What’re you gonna do now, huh?”

This whole time, he’d thought that the deathlink was merely a way for Trott to take out one more person if he ended up failing his mission, tearing apart the town just that little bit more so that it would never forget his message, but the man had looked ahead. He had known he would get out of the main conflict alive, and that the chances of Zylus doing the same were in his favour, and he knew that despite the town’s history of destruction the people still held empathy in their hearts; with that knowledge, he’d taken the time to create a situation where he used it all to his advantage.

“Keep me under lock and key? Hah. I’d break out.”

They weren’t going to kill Trott. The traitor would be free to stay in the town and do as he pleased, and the others would be powerless to stop it.

He’d have to do it himself.

“How are you feeling, Zylus?” Trott is in his face now, a cocky smirk playing on his lips as he looks down on his captive. “I destroyed the keys for these things, you know. We’re stuck together ‘til the end.”

“Fuck you,” Zylus growls, spitting the words out like they were the poison bound to his wrist, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Angor shift in surprise. Trott raises an eyebrow.

“Big words,” he says. “Especially for someone who— OW!”

Trott doubles over and grabs his foot—the one that had been causing his limp, so Zylus had figured that stomping on it would hurt immensely—and knowing that he only has a split second to spare, Zylus takes off for the guard tower. He hears the shouts behind him and can only hope nobody is running after him, knowing that he could probably outrun Trott and nobody’s going to shoot him so he isn’t in any immediate danger; but he’s fully aware that if he ends up confronted by one of his friends then it’ll only make things worse. It doesn’t sound like Trott is running after him, though, and Zylus gets a sick sense of pleasure in knowing that will be the traitor’s fatal mistake.

When he reaches the tower—thankfully unstopped—he clambers up the ladder with relative ease only gained from experience. He doesn’t slow until he reaches the top, letting himself come to a stop in front of the open window he’s spent many hours positioned behind and shrugging off his sniper case. The view from the top is a sight he knows all too well, although he’s never seen it in this context—like a fall, instead of a vantage point. It’s strange how the two feel so different despite showing him the same town.

There’s the distinct sound of creaking metal behind him and he can’t help but sigh; there was no way nobody was going to come after him.

“Zylus?” Of course it’s Xephos. Zylus doesn’t turn around, but he doesn’t do anything else, wanting to know what Xephos has to say. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

So he does know what Zylus’ intentions are; to his credit, Zylus always knew that Xephos wasn’t as dumb as he sometimes acted, and with the given situation it wasn’t hard to imagine what Zylus had planned in his mind.

“We can- we can detain him. Keep him under our watch, you know, there’s more of us than him—”

“He’s too powerful.” Zylus raises his wrist and glares at the metal, holding it out for Xephos to see. “I’ve been trying to get this off my wrist since he put it on, it won’t budge. He’s the only one left with this kind of tech. And- and he killed Daltos, I know he did, he’s the one who started this all and he’ll finish it if nobody else does it for him.”

“But we’ve got the numbers—”

“That doesn’t matter!” Zylus shouts, and he can’t help but spin around to throw the words into Xephos’ face. “Look at me, Xeph! Look at all of us! The town’s wrecked, everyone’s _dead_ , and I’m bound to a traitor for the rest of my life.” He can feel the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and stubbornly tries to will them away. “I- I just wouldn’t be happy. At least let me go on my own terms.”

He can tell that Xephos wants to protest (and he’s almost considering punching him again to get him to go away), but after some seconds of tense silence, the man just sighs.

“...I understand.” It’s small, reluctant, almost whispered and carried away in the non-existent wind, but it’s there. Xephos is struggling to meet Zylus’ eyes—he’s close to tears too. “I...guess I can’t stop you, huh?”

Zylus just stares at him. He takes a step forward, away from the ledge, and Xephos looks at him in surprise—only to be engulfed in a hug that’s more of a desperate grab than anything.

“I’m sorry, Xephos,” Zylus says into his shoulder, words that neither of them ever thought would be spoken. “For everything. Sorry I never really trusted you.”

“Sorry I never trusted _you_ ,” Xephos mutters back, and he’s crying now, they’re both crying because this is so _bullshit_ and they can’t do anything about it. He chuckles wetly. “Shame...we could’ve been good friends, couldn’t we?”

“Yeah.” Zylus pulls back, smiling grimly at Xephos as he pats his shoulder. “Don’t go wasting your life now, alright?”

“I’ll try.” Xephos attempts to return the smile, a small upturn in his lips that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Zylus steps back, but he doesn’t turn around just yet.

“Guess this is goodbye, then.”

“I guess.”

He shuffles back more, feels his heel hit the wall just below the open gap. “Sorry for everything.”

“It’s alright. I forgive you.”

“I forgive you too.”

Xephos only nods, glad that the apology lodged in his throat had been picked up on. Zylus sighs and turns around, puts one foot on the ledge, then looks back a final time.

“Bye, Xephos.”

“...See you on the other side, Zylus?”

“...See you on the other side.”

And with that, Xephos turns his head away as Zylus turns around and jumps.

* * *

Hidden where he is on the first floor of the town hall, Ross watches everything. He hears the revelation, sees Zylus almost crush Trott’s foot and make a run for it, sees Xephos chase him while Angor grabs Trott by the arms in case the traitor tries to go after them. He sees Lydia look around during the panic and notice him in the window—he puts a finger to his lips as a plea to not be revealed. She nods, although her eyes betray the shock (and relief) she feels at seeing him alive, and turns away.

He watches as Zylus appears at the top of the guard tower, as he turns around and shouts at Xephos, as two known enemies come together in a final hug.

He looks away when Zylus makes the jump.

Trott’s watching, though—he’s the only one of them who keeps his eyes on the sight. His hand is wrapped around the arm with the bracelet, and seconds after the jump he tenses in Angor’s grip. Then he collapses, not hitting the ground due to Angor still holding his arms, but his head lolls in a way that Ross wishes he wasn’t so used to seeing, and he knows the poison has taken its effect.

Angor is laying a still Trott onto the floor when Ross finally drags himself out of his hiding spot. He’s surprised but he masks it well, and Lydia is looking at him in pity, but he gives them a tired smile and a nod before kneeling down next to the body. The eyes are still open, unfocused and unseeing, and with a bittersweet grimace, Ross reaches over and gently closes Trott’s eyes for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that, due to science, the poison probably wouldn't have been injected so immediately after the jump, especially if the bracelets were measuring pulse, but let's have a little suspension of disbelief. It's still just as angsty either way.


	15. A Quiet Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four who remain deal with the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Again, most of this has been written for a year, so it may be slightly janky at times, but I think I edited it well enough.
> 
> TW: They talk about things that happened in previous chapters but nothing more than that.

“I’m surprised you’re still alive,” Lydia murmurs to Ross as the most recent events settle in their minds. She can see Xephos approaching the group again out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad, but I didn’t think…”

“I’m surprised too, honestly,” Ross says with a sigh. They stand for a second, watching as Xephos falls numbly into Angor’s arms, before he speaks again. “I’m only here because of you.”

“What?”

“He shot me, you know. I think I said too much, freaked him out. But the bulletproof saved me. I fell over from the force and pain and he thought I was dead.” One of Ross’ hands curl absentmindedly over the vest, the one that Lydia forced him to take several hours ago. The vest that’s identical to the one she’s currently wearing. “You saved my life, Lydia.”

That sentence alone causes a lot of emotions to rush into her chest, making her think of things she doesn’t want to think about, and not knowing what to say to that, all Lydia can do is nod.

* * *

There’s nobody left, so the decision to leave the town behind is an easy one for all of them to make.

They all split off for the rest of the day, packing away whatever belongings they want to bring and treating any injuries they’ve been ignoring, and not another word is spoken as the sun sinks below the horizon.

* * *

It’s distinctly colder that night, Ross thinks. He’s lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling he’s lived under for the past however long, and the slight chill of the air bites at his skin in a way that he’s not used to experiencing. Most of him believes it’s from the lack of his status as a phoenix—a cruel reminder that he only has one chance left and if he messes up, it’s game over for good this time. It’s an easy assumption to justify; after all, Smiffy had liked to mention the way Ross always seemed _warm_.

He ignores the part of him that lingers on the lack of snores coming from the rooms across the hall.

* * *

Lydia walks the streets instead of sleeping that night, restless and unable to push the faces of those she’d never see again from her mind. It’s the first time in ages she’s felt safe walking through the town at night (even before the whole game of traitors and trust started, there had still been a sense of threat that loomed over the town during twilight, which says a lot, really), so she’d never realised just how many stars you can see when the skies are clear. There’s a distinct beauty to it, she thinks.

She doesn’t think about how many people would no longer be able to see the sight.

There’s a figure huddled on the doorstep of the town hall, sitting in silence. As Lydia approaches, she makes out the distinct shape of Angor, slouched and staring at the ground.

“How’re you holding up?” she asks, a whisper that breaks the silence that had settled over the town.

There’s a moment of pause, charged with memories and grief, then, “It’s really quiet, isn’t it?” It’s not a proper answer, not by a long shot, but she thinks she gets it. The town is _quiet_ , enough that a breath is as loud as the wind, and it’s odd. Sure, people slept through the night, but there was always some sort of noise, like a group out on a walk or a quiet conversation over comms or someone yelling at another to turn their music down; the commotion came with living in their little messed up town. Now that the night has been left to settle, Lydia can’t decide whether the town feels as if it’s finally at peace or...dead. In a weird way, it feels like a mix of both.

“Yeah.” She takes a seat beside him. Another pause. “Zoeya was crying when the bomb went off. She never wanted all the violence.” She doesn’t know why she’s telling this to Angor, it’s not like he needs to know, but she was the only one who walked away with the memory of that meeting and that doesn’t sit right with her. “She...she didn’t try and get out, you know. She didn’t try to stop Bouphe from saving me either.”

This is news to Angor—nobody ever found out what had truly happened in that room—but he hides the surprise behind practiced apathy and nods along. “Bedgar was...well. I don’t know what he wanted.” He sighs. “He’s with the stars, now. So are the others.”

Lydia looks back up at the clear night sky. “I never realised how many you could see from out here. It’s beautiful.”

“Sure is,” Angor says. “Most stars I’ve seen in awhile.”

“You spend a lot of time out at night?”

“Mm.”

A door creaks open then, somewhere in the distance. Soft footsteps crunch along the gravel path, followed by a pause and a quiet knock. The two of them don’t say anything, listening to the hushed voices that drift down the street, and then another door swings closed and two pairs of feet resume walking.

Lydia raises a hand in greeting as Xephos and Ross round the corner, the former looking momentarily surprised at seeing her and Angor out as well.

“I assume we’re all still awake for the same reason?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Probably.”

“Sort of.”

Everyone casts a curious glance to Ross, who merely shrugs. “I dunno, man, it’s really cold. Though I guess that might just be me ‘cause...” He gestures vaguely at the simple t-shirts that Lydia and Xephos are wearing, which look flimsy compared to Ross’ heavy jacket (that none of them have ever seen him in). “I mean, it’s not like I’m getting any sleep anyway, too many thoughts.”

“Here, here,” Lydia mutters, a lifeless cheer. Angor pats the ground beside him and the two sit, the group hunched together in quiet solidarity.

Nobody says anything until Ross’ breath hitches.

“Ross?” Lydia murmurs, watching as the man curls in tighter to himself and rubs a hand over his eyes, sniffing lightly. He shakes his head, averting his tear-filled eyes from everyone else’s as Xephos puts his hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Ross whispers, a fruitless apology to nobody in particular, and the hand on his shoulder tightens in some vague attempt of comfort. Lydia feels her own eyes tear up at the quiver in his voice.

“Don’t be,” Xephos replies, and they fall back into unsteady silence.

After another minute of thinking, Lydia sighs. “I’m gonna miss them all.”

“Yeah,” Angor agrees, voice quiet and slightly strained. “They were...they were good people. As good as they could be.”

“Even the- the traitors?” Lydia asks, and she’s surprised at how hard it is to get the word out. Even before Angor replies she knows the answer—despite what they did, what they were planning against everybody, she could never consider them as anything other than friends.

“Even them,” Angor says. “Rythian, Zoeya, Bedgar…” He trails off on this name, for obvious reasons to all of them, and takes a moment to continue. “Maybe even Trott.” Ross visibly winces when Trott is mentioned, wiping at his eyes; whatever had happened, it definitely left behind scars. “Although, I dunno, maybe I don’t know what good really means.”

“Whatever they were, they were our friends,” Xephos says, exactly what Lydia had been thinking. If she looks close enough, she thinks she can see tears building up in his eyes too. “And, you know, they’re in a better place now. They…” His voice breaks and, unable to finish whatever he was going to say, he hunches in on himself with a sniffle.

Once again they lapse into silence, all four of them crying with only the stars to witness it. It hurts, more than the gunshots and explosions they had endured, but somehow it’s almost therapeutic.

“...Are we going to be alright?” Lydia whispers at one point, rubbing at her eyes uselessly.

“Fucking... _no_ ,” Xephos chuckles wetly. Angor and Ross have nothing to say on the matter.

And in the quiet of the night, an empty town is mourned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! I can't believe I actually finished this, it's the first multi-chapter story of mine that I've actually completed, so it means a lot that you read all the way through. If you've been reading as I published this, thanks for sticking with me even as the time between chapters got progressively longer. And if you're reading after the fact, thanks to you too! I really appreciate everyone who left kudos, commented or even messaged me about the story, you encouraged me to keep writing so we could reach this point and I'm really proud of how this turned out. Thanks for reading!


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